To Be Worthy
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: What if Harry Potter ended up on the wrong doorstep? And what if that doorstep happened to be Arthur Kirkland's? The change alters Harry's life for better or for worse. Enemies now are friends and maybe different lives will be lost in three different scenarios.
1. On My Doorstep

**1. **

**On My Doorstep**

Arthur Kirkland wanted nothing more than to remain at home and nurse the burn on his left arm. It was finally a day of rest. There were no meetings to attend, no wars to deal with, and the wizarding world had finally risen victorious over the Death Eaters. Arthur wanted little to do with it from the start. However, every time a firework cackled in the air or an owl swooped past his window, he barely restrained a grin of content.

His kettle whistled, its piercing cry cutting his thoughts in two. He frowned and walked over to it, restoring his left arm into a sling and checking to see if the bandages remained in their place. He approached the kettle and poured himself a cup of tea, doubting if even more heat is what he needed.

The frail white blinds of his kitchen poured in light, but didn't allow his nosy neighbor to look inside. The neighbor, a Petunia Dursley, squinted outside, trying to see what sort of mistake the neighbors had made. As far as she was concerned, Arthur was a perfectly ordinary, uptight English citizen who had a job good enough to afford himself a comely house in a suburban neighborhood. Arthur preferred to keep it that way.

He set the kettle down and leaned against the counter. He picked up the fine china cup a friend had gifted him and took a delicate sip. An owl flashed by his window, hooting merrily. Voldemort was irretrievably lost to this world for the time being. Good for them, Arthur thought.

Once he dined on several dry biscuits and a slice of cheese, he proceeded to renew his bandages. He unfurled the old ones and gazed at the blisters lining his arm, like soldiers on war-torn, scorched earth. He tried not to scratch as his skin, knowing full well the pain that would follow. His doctor advised soaking his bandages in medication and this he did. While he waited, the phone began to chime. Arthur wondered who would call, and with such a desperate ring. With his good hand he picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Hey."

"What is it, Alfred?"

"I was wondering, I just saw the news and apparently there are a lot of owls going about your country. I'm going to make a wild guess and say that it isn't normal."

"Look, I'm doing something right now. I don't think you should waste your phone bill on this call."

"I would assume as nations we would have some sort of special privileges for phone bills." Alfred sounded bored and ornery, like a teenager.

Arthur sighed deeply, his voice muffled by static. "Yes, you do, but I decided to cut them out for some time while I… recover."

"Oh, I see." Alfred said. Arthur knew he had nodded into the phone. He heard something in the background akin to music, but stopping every few moments.

"What is that noise?"

"It's the neighbors. I'll call you back when you recover, then."

"Good-bye."

"Bye-bye."

The phone went silent. Arthur set it down gently and placed the bandages on his skin with the same amount of care. He had planned to take a week just to relax. Alfred's call wasn't completely unwelcome. In fact, Arthur liked to hear a youthful voice every once in a while. Arthur smiled to no one in particular and, once finished with the bandages, he put his hand in the sling and decided to take a walk.

He exited his home, locking the door behind him. He saw the neighbor, Vernon, pull out of the driveway and make his way to work. Arthur stepped into the street and began a walk. Petunia stuck her scrawny neck out of the door. Her eyes landed on Arthur and a glint of compassion for a normal human being sprung to life.

"Hello Mrs. Dursley." Arthur said with a calm wave.

"Hello." She said curtly. Once she had affirmed something Arthur couldn't possibly explain, she retreated back to her house, like a weasel into its den, and the door shut. Arthur turned back and continued his stroll down the sunbathed street.

On his way, he spotted a cat sitting patiently, as if it was a furry stone. Arthur slowed his walk and shot it a scrutinizing glare. It returned it.

"You know," he said, lowering his head, "I have a feeling I know you."

The cat, who he knew to be Minerva, chose not to respond. Arthur shrugged.

When he finally exited the neighborhood, he wondered how he should spend his day. He wanted to leave a human lifestyle, even for a short period of time, and so he decided, checking to see if his wallet was present, to dine at restaurants and to enjoy the city.

His adventures took him longer than he anticipated. When he stopped for dinner, after watching _Much Ado About Nothing_, he chose one of the noisiest diners in the city. He longed for excitement and a drink.

He entered the dimly lit area. The bells around the door signaled his arrival. Smiling politely at the waitress, he earned himself a seat by the window. His back faced another man who appeared to have had one too many to drink.

He turned in his seat and stared at Arthur, who felt a sudden discomfort. The waitress asked his order and Arthur told it, returning the man's stare evenly. After an interval, the man nodded at his arm.

"What 'appened?"

"I burned it."

"Doing what?"

"I was visiting a friend and her dress caught fire. I tried to stamp it out, you know, terrified, and it caught me." Arthur shrugged as if it was nothing.

The man nodded slowly, dragging his tongue across his dry lips. He turned his back on Arthur. The waitress returned with Arthur's order and set it down. She left, her skirts swaying to the beat of the music. Arthur tried to follow the words only to realize it was all nonsense. _When you call my name, it's like a little prayer. I'm down on my knees. I wan-na take you there!_

The meal vanished from Arthur's plate, along with several glasses of liquor, and the next thing he knew he was seated with the other drunken man and they were laughing about some joke. Arthur wiped the tears from his eyes and sobered up briefly.

Arthur's newfound friend seemed to do so as well. He was a handsomely average looking man with curled brown hair and watery bloodshot eyes. His hands were on the table, rolling a ring between them. It glinted in the sharp light. Along the inside a date was inscribed. The man dragged his tongue across his lips again, like an animal preparing to feast on a tasty piece of prey.

"You know, if anything, I just want a normal life for just a while… Then it can go straight to hell, I tell you. Or maybe something good can come from it for a little while and have it swept away." Arthur said to the table.

"Sounds like you're bargaining."

"I'm only trying to make it seem like a deal. I can't get a good thing for free, you know?"

"Ay, I know…" he nodded sagely.

Arthur laid his head down on the table, breathing heavily. He placed his wounded hand next to him, so he wouldn't crush it. Even intoxicated he knew better than to hurt it further.

"Wouldn't you get bored if you have too much peace?" The man countered suddenly. His eyes narrowed.

"Oh, no, heavens no." Arthur shook his head with great feeling. "I would write a novel! I've wanted to for so long… I would write and write. The misery it would cost me would be great, surely, but just a few years of rest. Now…" He nodded. "That would be pleasant."

He rubbed his eyes, already feeling the alcohol dwindling in his blood stream. The man seemed to have stopped paying attention. He was greatly enraptured with a group of young women across the diner. Arthur glanced out the window, surprised to find how deeply night had settled. He paid his bill and went to the restroom to dispose of the alcohol, at least a good sum of it, and then decided to make the walk home.

He tucked his hand deep in his pocket, making his way back to Little Whinging. If it had been his choice, he would have chosen someplace else to live. It wasn't a horrible place to live for a few years, until either war or some other disaster came, and he was content with it for the time being. The neighbors were a nuisance and the place could get extremely dull. Arthur lamented the choice, wishing he was in an apartment elsewhere.

Privet Drive came up too quickly before him.

The lights were out.

He frowned.

He blinked.

Still out.

He blinked again.

Ah, there they were. Arthur wondered if the drinks were still cultivating in his blood stream. He decided that must be so. Something still made his stop, as if a barrier had been erected before him and the lot. He caught a flash of black in the darkness, something shifted. Arthur wondered what it could be. Once more he attributed the strange sights to the alcohol and continued on his way.

Minerva was no longer there. The neighborhood was still. Arthur hesitated. A lone figure walking home was threatening, wasn't it? Then again, who would be awake at this hour to look? A child, perhaps, could be perched upon the windowsill, watching the world outside out of sleep deprivation. Arthur mused over this for a few more minutes, and then made his way to the house. A baby wailed somewhere.

He fumbled for his keys and, approaching his doorstep, heard the cry of an infant once more. He turned his eyes downwards and found a basket there. His heart thundered in his chest. Why would there be a child here? Was the child supposed to be Moses, sent to live with the pharaoh? Arthur kneeled before the basket and gently moved the cloth away from the infant's reddened face.

A child balled his fists and waved them. His eyes were screwed shut. Black hair began to bud, exposing a lightning-bolt shaped scar just along the forehead, above the brow. Arthur felt his shoulders sink. He wanted a normal lifestyle and now he had a child, the Boy Who Lived nonetheless, to take care of. A letter was attached to the child who had begun to fall asleep. He read it and tucked it in his pocket, taking the child home, calmly. Inside he set the infant on the couch, checking to see he wouldn't fall, and then he proceeded to panic.

* * *

_I do not own Hetalia or Harry Potter._


	2. Something About a Boy

**2.**

**Something About a Boy**

Arthur downed a glass of water and stared at himself in the mirror, debating on what he should do next. The thought of throwing the boy out didn't once cross his mind. Obviously Harry Potter should have ended up with his blood relatives, meaning the Dursley family, but Arthur had seen them. He had seen Petunia's withered neck out of her window too many times. He had heard the obese child squeal and howl too many times. He had heard Vernon huff and puff about everything unusual. He would faint if he met anyone just outside the realm of ordinary. Now a wizard wasn't just outside, he was more or less several oceans and countries away from that realm Vernon seemed to believe existed.

Therefore, the child must have come on purpose to live with him. The child must have arrived by fate, by sheer chance, and now it was in Arthur's hand to raise possibly the most famous wizard.

Arthur dragged his hands across his face, staring at his reflection and sighing deeply. His hair stuck out in all directions. He felt like a college student brought back to reality suddenly after a crazy week of night outs and drunken parties. But Arthur was an adult and it was about time for him to have a child. Who had said that?

Yes, that's right, Petunia had said that. She was in her garden trying to make it perfect and had muttered to someone who Arthur couldn't see, saying that the man next door ought to settle down. Wasn't he nearing the dreaded slump of middle age?

As Arthur thought this, he grinned. If only she knew just how old he really was. And, now that he had cleared the _why,_ he moved on to the _how._ How would he raise the child? Arthur moved away from the mirror and to the couch. He dropped on his knees and watched the basket. He gently stroked the boy's budding hairline. The scar was fresh and brilliant, holding with it a tight bundle of secrets.

The boy could never know he was a wizard. When the time came for him to go to school, Arthur would oblige, but until then he would live a normal, human life. That meant that he could not learn of Arthur's true life either. He could not have any contacts with the nations or the wizards. They would harp on him and turn fanatic over something he couldn't remember. Living as a celebrity already proved dangerous in the mortal world and for wizards it was no better.

Harry opened his clear, youthful eyes and yawned.

"Are you hungry?" Arthur whispered.

Harry stared at him curiously, balling his fists.

"We'll get you something to drink." Arthur stood and went to the kitchen, heating up some milk. They would live like normal human beings in the normal human society. Harry would know nothing until the time came. He would display the signs inevitably and Arthur would have to leave sometimes to attend meetings, but for a child everything was strange and new and peculiar. When Arthur left he could leave Harry at the old witch next door's house. She could care for him for some time. She must get lonely with her cats…

Arthur looked at the time. It was nearing one a.m. He dug through his cupboards for anything he could feed Harry with, aside from a spoon, and came up dry. The next day he would have to buy some supplies to care for the infant, who was nearly one year old. At least he didn't have to care for a very young child. His parents had taken care of that.

Lily and James Potter… Arthur felt a stab of sorrow for them. He had never formally spoken with the pair concerned and now he had to take care of their only son. In the kitchen, at one in the morning holding a spoon and a bowl of warm milk, Arthur made a promise to the late parents that he would do his best to bring up Harry to be a decent young man. Teaching him magic was out of the question, Arthur decided. He hadn't done magic in far too long.

He went back to Harry and with the nicest spoon he could fine, began to feed him milk. Harry frowned, as if asking Arthur what in the world he was doing. It struck Arthur that he had no idea how to raise a child anymore. He had raised Alfred and, to an extent, his brother Matthew, but that had been years ago and the boys had been older.

"I really don't know what I'm doing, yet." Arthur said. "But I really will try my best, I promise. I'll raise you as best as I can. I'm your father."

Harry began to wail in discomfort. Arthur took him from the basket and put the letter away, in a drawer.

…

The following day Arthur purchased the necessary items, astounded by the price a child cost, and began fathering the little Harry.

At home, while he watched Harry play with one of his old toy soldiers, he was confronted by two thoughts at once: first, that Harry had a strange resemblance to Alfred, and second, that there was no way out of this. This wasn't a plan for a short while that he could abandon. His only choice was to apply all his energy to raising the child, which better mean good results.

Harry raised the painted, carved piece of wood and pretended he could fly.

Arthur had a feeling that the Dursley residence would have attempted to stomp the magic from Harry, depriving him of everything that he didn't need to survive. Arthur felt a sour taste in his mouth. No, that would mean destroying Harry's very essence.

Harry waved the soldier at Arthur. He picked it up and began to play along with Harry, laughing when Harry began giggling.

He would only remove the influence of wizardry. He would not say yes or no, it would only take a backseat. Hogwarts would instill all the wizarding Harry needed regardless. Arthur considered contacting Dumbledore but thought better of it. That was the future and although it was fast approaching, he didn't need to worry himself bald over it just yet.

…

"Look there!" Petunia hissed, cradling her little Dudleykins and feeding him. He already weighed more than a child his age should and his seat croaked dangerously under his weight. Nonetheless Petunia pushed another spoonful of food into his waiting mouth.

She squinted out the windows. Her neighbor, a disgustingly handsome man with an atrocious mop of blond hair was playing with his _son_. Petunia scowled. And where was the woman? Had he impregnated some unwilling girl and got that child, who looked nothing like him, and now he had no choice? She shook her head and pushed another spoonful into Dudley's sloppy mouth.

"What a brute." She muttered.

"Harry!"

She rounded on the window. Had she heard correctly? Had that man really called out to his son by the name of _Harry_? Arthur was chasing Harry around their porch, picking him up and laughing.

No, she heard a _Larry _or _Gary_ or something like that. Surely, Petunia thought.

"Harry, no, don't do that. That hurts." Arthur admonished gently, taking Harry's fist away from his hair.

It was Harry, then. Petunia glowered. She thought of her sister's son Harry. It was pure coincidence of course that the man would call his son by the same average, boring name such as Harry.

Still, Petunia continued to listen, abandoning her feeding to the point that Dudley began to wail madly, slamming his fists against the table. She shushed him.

"Harry Potter, I'm warning you." Arthur said playfully. Harry had again began to grab at his hair.

_Potter…_

_Potter._

_Potter?_

_POTTER!_

"What is it?" Vernon boomed, stampeding to the kitchen. Petunia hadn't realized that she had wailed allowed. She pointed out the window for her husband to see. He scowled out of habit, but a look of confusion crossed his face at the same moment. What was she yelling about when a father was playing with his son?

"What are you getting on about? That Kirkland fellow is an honest man, isn't he?"

"He called that son of his _Harry Potter_."

Vernon puffed. Of course, she was hearing things. Still, he cast a sly look with his beady eyes at the boy with his ebon hair and faint scar across his forehead. Coincidence, just plain coincidence…


	3. Only a Dream

**3.**

**Only a Dream**

"Daddy?"

Arthur snapped awake. He rose steadily on his elbow and ran his opposite hand across his eyes, frowning into the dim room. The door was swung open and Harry stood at the center, his faint shadow fanning out before him. He was sleepy and slow in speaking. He yawned and watched Arthur, his pajamas bunched up in one fist.

"What is it, Harry?"

"I had that bad dream again."

Arthur frowned. "Come over here." He sat up on the bed and patted next to him. As his eyes adjusted to the room, he was able to see Harry's nervous eyes more clearly. Harry scampered over and clambered up the bed, sitting down next to Arthur and hugging his small knees to his chest. He was nearing his seventh birthday and had long since ceased needing Arthur at night, that is, unless his usual nightmare reared his ugly head.

"Tell me about it. It's no use keeping it locked up inside of you. Then it will start to really hurt." Arthur said with a faint sense of déjà vu. He looked down at Harry who stared straight ahead.

Harry held his hands before him and spread his fingers, "I saw a big green light and then I heard someone scream."

"Who screamed?"

"I don't know. I think it was a lady." Harry explained, squinting, trying to recollect, even though the night terror still scared him.

Harry had seen the death of his parents, replaying in his mind like a damaged video tape. It played over and over in his mind, imprinted there from horror, and yet he could barely comprehend it. He didn't know who was screaming, he didn't know where that green light came from.

All he knew was that something bad had happened.

"It's just a dream." Arthur said and hugged Harry to his side tightly, rumpling his hair with a large, calloused hand. Harry beamed up at his father. Arthur was a super hero, he was invincible, he was the man who could fight a bear and win. Harry leaned back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

Again, that sense of remembrance pestered Arthur. He racked his brains to pinpoint its location. Just when he thought he had spotted it, it was only a shadow and it slipped right back through the cracks. He decided he would try to remember later, when Harry went back to sleep.

"Was that my mummy?" Harry asked suddenly.

"Was who your mummy?" Arthur asked, although he knew the answer.

"The lady who was screaming," the boy asked in his usually mild-mannered way.

Arthur responded with a shrug, even though he again knew the answer.

"Will you tell me about her?"

"Maybe soon," Arthur responded vaguely, as most parents did when they didn't want to talk about something. "Now, I want you to sleep." He said, turning so that his green eyes gleamed in the darkness, like a cat's, and much the same color as Harry's. Not once did he doubt who is father was. Even passer-bys would stoop down, grinning, and say how marvelous the similarity was between father and son. Arthur smiled warmly and tucked Harry under the sheets. "It's a dream, it won't hurt you."

Harry nodded and shut his eyes, leaning against the pillow. Arthur felt a stab of pain in his chest. Harry had gone through four years so quickly, like water slipping between the cracks in his fingers. Soon Harry would suffer through adolescence and feel like it dragged by while Arthur couldn't blink without missing a year or two. Just like… Just like Alfred and Matthew. Harry hadn't met any other nation thus far and Arthur preferred it that way.

In a few minutes Harry had fallen asleep deeply. His small chest rose and fell and his eyelashes flickered with a more pleasant dream. Arthur remained propped up on several pillows. He ran his hands through Harry's unruly hair gingerly. He didn't like to think about Alfred or Matthew, especially the proceeding. He recalled Alfred running into his room wildly blithering about some crazy dream he had and Arthur would comfort him… Arthur looked out the window into the night. The street lamps glowed a gently, fruity orange. A cat crept along the streets, white, and large. She padded into the bush and vanished altogether.

What if Harry had grown up with his aunt and uncle? The thought struck Arthur as a miserable life. Soon Harry would have to face Dudley at school. Arthur couldn't keep him forever away from the ratty bunch just next to his house, they were family by blood. Arthur removed his hand from Harry's temple and reached for the alarm clock, turning it to face him. It was nearing two in the morning. What if Harry had that same dream and went to his uncle at this hour? Surely Vernon would have tossed him out. He would have snapped at him too, scaring Harry into isolation.

Would they have told Harry that they were his real parents? No. They would have said some lie about how he came to be an orphan. As far as Harry, sleeping peacefully next to him, knew, he was Arthur's son, undeniably so.

The thoughts plagued Arthur into discomfort. He felt uneasy in the thick summer air and left, gently tip-toeing to the kitchen. His footsteps were but whispers. He poured himself a glass of water and downed it, still feeling something wrong, something building up. Alfred's features, plump, rosy, flashed before his mind. It clashed with an image of Harry, like a dark puppy kicked too many times, pushed into a corner by an aunt and uncle fueled by something not quite like evil.

…

Harry sat on the stool, swinging his legs, and happily munching on breakfast. His night terrors had long been forgotten and now were replaced by putting the eggs and sausages in his mouth. He contently drummed the table with his small fingers and watched the television. A kid friendly program with soft colors was on. Arthur sat on his own chair, mopping up the last of his eggs with a slice of toast.

The phone began to ring. Harry slipped off the chair to pick up the phone. "No, it might be from work." Arthur said gently and went to it himself. He picked it up and leaned against the counter with his hip. He was in striped blue pajamas and Harry had already changed into his day clothes. Harry had an exciting day of play ahead of him. If only that was what happened. Arthur later thought of this moment, of looking at Harry chuckle at the television, a vision of utter bliss across of face, and wondered how the day could have taken such an ugly, charred, disgusting turn.

"Hello?" Arthur said, running his fingers through his hair.

"Hey, Arthur."

"Alfred?"

"Who is it?" Harry piped up.

Arthur placed his fingers against the receiver. "Your uncle," he answered and returned to the phone once Harry nodded and continued watching as the cat plotted to foil the mouse. "What do you want, Alfred?"

"Did I wake you up?" Alfred sounded genuinely concerned. Arthur could hear something in the background.

"No you didn't, but where are you?"

"I'm at a—_whooooeee_ did you see that?" He called out to someone who responded with a hoarse, certainly ornery laugh. Alfred returned to Arthur. "Sorry about that. And anyway, I wanted to ask something of you."

"What is it?" Arthur asked, annoyed.

"Well, I have some crap in my attic that needs to be taken care of and I was wondering if you could come over."

"I won't do your spring cleaning for you. Besides, it's not spring anymore."

Alfred missed the joke. "No, I don't want you to clean. I just want you to get some things."

Arthur frowned. "You know very well that I can't simply go to America right now."

"Why not?"

Alfred didn't know about Harry. Arthur hadn't intended to keep it a secret. It just wasn't brought up. "I have some things to take care of here." Arthur said.

"You sound kind of like a dad."

"What?" Arthur felt his legs turn to ice.

"I don't know. It just sort of gives me that feeling. You know how dads sound, like they're king of the world, and they protect. What I mean, actually, hold on, I need to think this through." He paused for a long time. When Alfred had a problem he would get to the very roots before he would reveal any progress. "That's right. You're talking like you talked when Matt and I were kids."

"That's rubbish, Alfred." Arthur said in a voice he hoped wasn't quavering.

"Anyway, I'll respect your wishes and I'll just send it over in our, um, _special_ post office. Is that all right?"

"That will be just fine."

"Right, I'll get it over by afternoon where you are."

"Good bye."

"Bye."

Alfred hung the phone off. Arthur held the phone to his ear, listening to the dead buzz. Finally he sighed and hung it up.

"This afternoon we'll go to the post office. How does that sound?"

Harry nodded. Arthur couldn't restrain a smile. He rumpled Harry's hair again, his hand moving naturally.

…

At the post office Arthur and Harry collected two separate, small boxes. They went back home, enjoying the nice breeze and breathing in the fresh air. Harry trotted by Arthur, holding the smaller of the boxes, and holding Arthur's hand with the other. He held the box proudly, feeling grown-up. As they walked past the grocery store, Arthur paused. He needed to buy some milk. He and Harry went in and made the transaction, along with a piece of candy for Harry.

Harry held the piece of candy in his fist and the box he kept tucked under his armpit. At the entrance to the store, a squat man stopped. He was dressed in a funny way, Harry thought. The man's clothing was dark. He didn't wear robes like most wizards, Arthur noticed, but he was having trouble adjusting to "muggle wear". Arthur wanted to walk on by, dismissing the man, but he refused to do so. He stared at Harry, his eyes darting from Harry's eyes to the scar along his forehead.

"Harry _Potter_ is it?" He said, breathless.

"No, Harry Kirkland." Harry replied in his small voice. Arthur wanted to leave and began to edge away. Besides, he thought he saw a familiar face walk on by. "My middle name is Potter, though."

"I see, I see." The man nodded and looked at Arthur, a flash of recognition crossed his features. Arthur was nonplussed. Most people of England had the same expression when the saw him, as force of habit. "Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter." He said with a broad grin and walked by.

Harry looked at Arthur for an explanation. Arthur shrugged, as if he knew no better. "Come on, Harry, we need to go home. I'm getting tired of carrying this and I'm sure you are too."

Harry shrugged, as if the matter didn't bother him. They continued to walk. Arthur hoped that the face he saw earlier wouldn't leap from the bushes and attack them. He was mostly wrong. They didn't leap. They snaked into the conversation, their teeth bared, and they placed a drop of slow-acting poison in Harry.

Petunia and Dudley were walking to the store just the same. Her bony hand was clamped around Dudley's fist which resembled a glob of dough. She had seen the transaction. Her eyes shot from Harry to Arthur, growing narrower with suspicion at each turn that Arthur feared her face would shrivel up.

"Hello, Arthur." She said coolly, giving Dudley's hand an unnecessary squeeze. Harry recoiled. Arthur had been silent on the subject of their neighbors. Harry seemed just as repulsed by them alone, so he didn't need any more encouraging. Something about them displeased Harry, even at the young age. Then again, children seemed to be able to sniff out bad intentions easily.

"Hello, Mrs. Dursley." Arthur said calmly with a polite smile attached.

"I see you've brought your… boy along." She casually stepped over the term _son_.

"Yes. Say hello, Harry." Arthur said, though he wouldn't have liked to.

"Hello, Harry." Harry said.

Petunia scowled briefly at his witticism. Arthur restrained laughter by curling his lower lip in and biting it. "Hello, Harry." She said, nudging Dudley.

"Hello Harry." The boy said, with all the nastiness he could muster.

This boy will stomp my son into the earth the second he gets a chance. Arthur thought. Soon he will get that chance at school. He felt sick. The laughter died in his throat. Arthur sighed and gave Petunia and even look.

"Any reason in particular you wanted to stop me here? I do beg your pardon, but you don't seem the type to say hello to a neighbor every once in a while."

Harry gave Arthur a look that the man never forgot. It was of stunning, glittering respect for his father. It was only a snarky comment, but to little Harry, Arthur may as well have bashed a snake back into its hole with only his little finger. To Harry, Aunt Petunia was nothing but a dried up old serpent.

_Aunt Petunia… _Arthur loathed the idea that Harry would have to grow up saying that foul name to the woman dissolved by her own jealousy.

"Oh, nothing," Petunia said with an effeminate giggle. "I was just about to say that this Harry has a strange resemblance to my sister, _Lily's_, son by the same name. Don't you think?" She treaded on the word, trying to squeeze a reaction out of Arthur. Arthur remained impassive.

He grinned. "Really? How strange. They say at least seven people on the earth look remarkably alike." _Pray I never have to meet all seven Petunias and Dudleys in one room_. Arthur thought, but didn't voice.

Petunia, not yet satisfied or convinced, gave him a tart good-bye, and walked away. As she did, Dudley leaned over and gave Harry a strong thrust, causing him to drop the box. Dudley also, in a movement too slow to be considered cunning but too thought out to be considered a child's simple mistake, he bruised Harry's shoulder and took the piece of uneaten candy. Petunia said nothing, as if she hadn't seen anything.

Arthur wanted to thwack that fat brat upside the head. He couldn't, of course. If anyone of the passing strangers had seen the events unfold, then they remained silent. Arthur didn't care, of course. He placed his hand on Harry's back.

"Let's get you home." Arthur said quickly. Harry's eyes were wide from shock, as if he could barely comprehend what had happened.

Harry nodded mutely and picked up the box. He could hear the insides rattling around, unlike before. Something had broken. Harry's eyes were wet. He blinked rapidly.

By the time they reached home, Harry had begun to cry. Harry rarely cried, even when he had bad dreams, but he was still a child. Arthur hugged him and placed a pack of ice on his bruise. He writhed with anger at the child fed solely on his parents' hate. Harry wiped his eyes, coughing out choked sobs.

"Harry, I'll by you another sweet." Arthur said gently, hugging Harry. Harry shook his head. "You don't want it?"

Harry shook his head again and pointed at the boxes now on the coffee table. "I b-broke it…" he mumbled.

"Is that why you're upset?" Arthur asked, taking a tissue and wiping Harry's face and nose. "Don't worry. It was old and useless anyway."

"But uncle sent it, didn't he?" Harry asked, sniffing.

"Yes, he did, but he didn't want it and neither do I."

Harry seemed just barely mollified. He nodded silently.

"I'll make you something to drink, then, how about some juice?" Harry agreed. Arthur returned shortly afterwards, giving the small cup to Harry who sipped at it.

Arthur put the boxes, unopened, in the unused cupboard. He stacked them neatly. Then, to vainly try and cheer Harry up, he took him to the nearby fair. There he let Harry play on the kiddy rides and bought him ice cream. Harry easily became cheerful and seemed to have forgotten about the unlucky encounter.

_But uncle sent it…_

_Uncle…_

Sitting on a bench and watching the sky grow dark with incoming rain, Arthur wondered why this word rang in his head, like an echo that refused to grow silent. Harry bit into the vanilla and laughed. "Ow! It's cold!"

Arthur smiled. "What did you think it would be?"

Harry shrugged. "Cold, I think… My teeth hurt."

"Wait a bit, it will get better."

_Uncle..._

"I want to win that owl!" Harry said, standing up and pointing to a stuffed owl toy, perched on the top of a circular platform.

"Let's win it, then." Arthur said, leading Harry to it. Harry finished the ice cream.

The woman manning the game grinned at Arthur. Arthur recognized her and gave her a knowing wink. The woman was missing a few teeth and had wispy red hair. Her gnarled knuckles rapped against the painted red wood. As she explained the rules of the game, throw the ball into the bin three times, her eyes remained fastened on to Harry's scar.

Arthur grew vaguely annoyed, but said nothing. Harry was in a state of utter enjoyment. The woman took the ball and gave it to Harry who threw it three times, landing it twice.

She laughed. "How 'bout I let you try one more time for that owl. I bet it likes you, doesn't it?"

Harry gazed at the owl and its marble eyes, then, slowly, began to nod.

_But uncle sent it…_

She handed him the green ball and Harry poised, ready to throw it. Arthur noticed the woman pull a wand from her back pocket, just barely. Harry's attempt missed, landing a few inches off. Harry frowned, staring at it. It rose, trembled in the air, and then landed in the bin.

Harry's eyes widened, so did the woman's. "Well, there you got it!" She said, tucking the wand back in her pocket. She hadn't uttered a single spell. She took the owl from the top and handed it to Harry who was still in a state of shock.

"How…?" he whispered, breathless.

"Lucky, aren't you?" She said. Harry nodded.

Arthur stared at the woman, curiously. Harry began to squirm.

"What is it, Harry? Do you need to go?"

Harry nodded.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

Harry shook his head.

"Go on," Arthur said, taking the owl from Harry. Harry rushed the nearby W.C. Arthur kept an eye on him, but turned to the woman to speak.

She gave him a broken grin, spotted where her teeth had gone missing.

"What did you do?" Arthur asked.

"I did nothing, sir. That boy has quite a bit of magic in 'im, doesn't he?" She laughed. "I was about to nudge him if it went wrong, but he had it in him."

Her wispy hair seemed to stand on end. Her face was wrinkled and old, with a scar running from her chin to her lower lip. Yet, she still had a youthful, lovely glow that alone was beautiful enough. She folded her hands before her. "Say, I hate to intrude, but you don't look much like James, do you?"

Arthur shook his head. "You know they're dead."

"Now, you've always been a mysterious man, Arthur, but why would they send him to you? Wouldn't it be better to send him to family?"

"The only family he has is a disgusting group of…" Arthur didn't finish. Harry came trotting back, reaching up to hold the owl. Arthur gave it to him. "We'll see you then." He said. The woman nodded and went to the other customers.

"How did I win?" Harry asked, hugging the owl.

Arthur shrugged. "Maybe it's magic."

Harry looked hopeful. Arthur rumpled his hair again and patted his back.

When they returned home, he was quite fed up with the word _uncle _stabbing him nearly every minute. He thought it would drive him mad. He decided then that Harry needed an outside influence and a feminine one if he could. Arthur couldn't provide a mother, but wasn't Matthew pretty close?

For the time being, Arthur decided to contact Matthew and ask him to visit. Harry wasn't quite ready for Alfred, yet. Besides, Arthur had something to do and Matthew would be a good babysitter. He picked up the phone and began to dial.


	4. Fairy Tale

**4.**

**Fairy Tale**

The first time Harry saw his uncle Matthew, he gasped aloud. He stared from the hallway at the lumberjack Canadian on the front steps. Arthur grinned at Matthew and embraced him quickly, gesturing for him to enter. Matthew did, bending so that his head didn't meet with the top of the door.

"Hello." He said in a delicious, sugary Canadian accent.

"Hello." Harry said back.

Matthew stepped forwards, taking off his coat. Arthur took it, brushing the snow from its front. Outside the weather had turned cold on a whim, casting down a large amount of snow and freezing the streets. Harry enjoyed it immensely. After school he played outside under Arthur's watch, his gloved hands cupping the powdery substance and tossing it in the air. Some stuck to his new, circular glasses. Matthew dropped to his knee. Even then he was taller than Harry. His face was long and his chin was showing signs of a beard that would never grow.

"I'm your Uncle Matthew." He explained.

"I know." Harry replied. "I'm Harry."

Matthew nodded. His hair, mousy, was tied back. His glasses were perched on his bony nose. Harry subconsciously adjusted his with small fingers and offered a smile.

"Harry, I'm going to get Matthew settled in his room. How about you get your coat on so we can take a walk and play in the snow?" Arthur took Harry's coat from the hanger and handed it to Harry, along with a pair of gloves, a scarf, and a hat. His boots waited near the door.

Matthew picked up his suitcase and wrung his own hat in one hand, following Arthur with a docile look on his face. He seemed just about content with anything. Arthur led him to the guest room.

"I'm glad to see you've been doing well, Arthur." Matthew said, setting his suit case down.

"And how have you been?" Arthur asked calmly. Raising a child had both heightened and soothed his nerves, Matthew noticed. Arthur had changed little in appearance. His hair was just as messy as Harry's and his eyes still had an eccentricity to them. However, his general expression and person reminded Matthew almost painfully of when he was a child and when Arthur raised him.

"Oh, you know, I've been doing well." He said, stretching out the "o" sounds. "Alfred's fine too. I saw him just before I got here after you called me. I'm happy to take a little break and see a child again. I haven't seen one since, oh, what? Three or more years or so, yes…"

Arthur cast him a sidelong look that Matthew didn't notice and turned into the hallway. There he helped Harry into his jacket. Arthur watched him from the hallway, slowly slipping into his trench coat and muffler.

"Are you in school yet?" Matthew asked.

Harry nodded.

"How do you like it?"

Harry shrugged.

"Well, it'll change that's for sure." Matthew laughed and stood back up.

His shoulders hunched forwards, in apology for his monstrous height. He adjusted his glasses and dug his hands deep into his pockets. They left home and Arthur followed, taking Harry from the left and picking up his small hand. Matthew walked a step or two behind them.

They went to the nearby park. Arthur went to the swing set and dried off the seat after Harry pointed to it. He picked up Harry and put him on, giving him a gentle push. He supplied a bit of support each time Harry swung back down, flinging a trail of fine snow after him.

A couple walked by, carrying their child. Arthur looked at them for a moment, feeling a strange shift in his heart, as if water had been displaced. The mother held her daughter by the hand, laughing, and eyeing her daughter with a fiercely worried, loving, and determined look of a mother. She was a plump, rosy woman with delicate features.

Matthew noticed the look and offered Arthur a faint smile. Harry rocked his legs and prepared to jump off. Arthur turned briefly to Matthew.

"He needs a female figure, doesn't he?" Arthur asked quietly. Matthew gave him a shrug that clearly meant he agreed.

"Oh—Harry!" Matthew said and stepped forwards, but it was a bit too late. Harry had swung off and landed on the ground easily, as if he had been a feather on a gentle gust of wind. He landed with his arms spread out, an astounded look on his face.

Arthur grinned. There, his boy was learning magic, wasn't he?

Matthew rushed to Harry and checked to see if he was okay. Harry, having taken a liking to this new man, laughed. "Again!"

"How about we make a snowman or something?" Matthew asked. Harry nodded. The two went precariously on the icy floor to a patch of untouched snow, and began to build one.

Arthur remained by the swing set, his gloved hands lingering on the chain. He slowly sunk into his thoughts, his brows furrowed. Who could he ask to come by every once in a while? Arthur sighed deeply, his breath pouring through his nostrils like fine white smoke. The air began to grow chillier.

By the time it was beginning to blizzard again, the three made their way back. Harry shivered, still smiling happily. He stomped the snow off his shoes after Matthew showed him how to do it properly, and then gave his jacket to Arthur. He was enraptured with the strange giant and his strange, gentle ways.

In many ways, Arthur thought Matthew is what a giant should be—big and therefore a little slow, but caring and gentle, and thoughtful, too. However, Matthew was not slow. Matthew was the prodigy of the family. He learned quickly and was startlingly brilliant in mathematics. But something inside him was humbled, so he remained quiet, and forgotten.

Arthur prepared them hot chocolate and sat on the opposite side of Harry, where the couch wasn't eaten up by Matthew who was telling Harry a long, thrilling story of a cop. Arthur sipped his hot cocoa, watching as the story unfolded. Harry's eyes widened with the shocking moment and a smile played on his lips when the cop fell into great fortune and success. Arthur could only imagine the happiness he would get from wizard books and stories, where the pictures moved and the words quite literally screamed.

When Matthew closed with a satisfying twist of plot, Harry fell silent for a moment. Then, he raised his eyes at Matthew curiously, his brows furrowed, inspired by Arthur. "Do you have a brother or sister?"

"Yes, a brother." Matthew said with a nod.

"Is he like you?"

Matthew paused, considering. "He's different, but he's more similar to me than he thinks."

"Oh."

"Do you want to meet him?"

Arthur frowned. He had planned to keep Harry away from Alfred for some time. But he couldn't deny Harry everything… Harry nodded vigorously. Arthur rumpled his hair.

"Well, we'll let you meet him soon, Harry. If you behave." Arthur warned, his eyebrows rising. Harry mimicked the expression and buried his head in Arthur's side, finally warmed up from outside. Arthur's eyes met with Matthew's briefly. Matthew shrugged again, running his finger along the rim of his steaming mug.

Arthur pulled the cup from Harry's grasp and set it on the table. Harry placed his head in Arthur's lap, clearly worn out. Arthur ran his hand along Harry's head.

"Tell me another story, Uncle Matthew."

Matthew agreed and launched into a long tale concerning Harry, where he was a wizard that saved the world by fighting off a giant serpent. Harry laughed and eventually his breathing tapered off into calm snores. Arthur took his glasses off and set them on the table, keeping his hand on Harry's shoulder. Matthew continued the story until he was certain Harry had fallen asleep.

Arthur, the whole while, approached Matthew with a curious glance. "How in the world did you come up with that story?"

"For a little while I taught kindergarten class." Matthew explained softly. His voice was no more than a night breeze rustling the leaves of an oak tree. "I used to read to them all the time. Then, one day, I found that I had no books to read so I made up a story that featured the kids. There were a few in all, French children mostly, and they loved it. I stopped reading them stories and started making them up. A lot of them liked the ones about magic, so I assumed Harry would too. You aren't against all that, of all people."

It wasn't an accusation, or a question, but rather a quiet observation.

* * *

_Thank you very much for the reviews. Although I may not respond, I do read through them all and take them into account. _

_For future reference, Emma = Belgium. _


	5. The Whirlwind Part I

**5.**

**The Whirlwind **

**(Part I)**

The primary school students swarmed outside, enjoying the good weather. The prospect of books and learning lingered behind the stone walls and, in a few blissful moments of freedom, they could forget about it. This was not the case for Harry Potter. As Harry grew, now about ten years old, his hatred for school had constantly grown. Sitting outside in the shadow, he watched as the students played games, ignoring him.

Even the children who would have liked Harry had to stay away. Others thought he was a social, awkward outcast with his wiry glasses and mess of hair. Those who had the knowledge that Harry Potter lived with a single man were warned by their parents that this boy was not like them. Harry did not know yet why he was so different. Arthur was a perfect father, even if he didn't know his mother.

All these reasons shied away from the main reason children created a distance from him. A pair of fists constantly met his flesh and those fists belonged to Dudley. And what Dudley didn't like, the others better not like either.

Harry did not know that Dudley was his cousin and neither did Dudley, but that didn't stop the huge boy from attacking him whenever it was a good day for it. Harry looked up at the tree. The dappled shadow fell across his face, following a cool wave to contrast the almost-summer climate.

The shadow across his face thickened. Harry turned, completely unsurprised, to find Dudley standing before him with several of his goons. Dudley grinned, the soft flesh around his smile crinkling and his sparse blond hair caught the sunshine. He could have been a nice boy, Harry thought as his arm was assaulted with balled fists. He winced and rubbed his shoulder. Another fist met his back. They were holding back.

Harry turned to look at Dudley, who was now enveloped in the bluish shadow. Dudley was frowning now. A teacher stalked by, seemingly without noticing the troop of large boys surrounding a skinny child. Harry noticed and his heart leapt to his throat. He stood and began to run. Once the teacher turned her spiny back on them, Dudley began to hunt Harry down. Then, something amazing happened.

…

"Harry?"

"Yes, dad?"

"I got a call from your teacher today." Arthur said in a very mild-mannered way. He sat on the kitchen table, writing something down on a lined piece of paper. Harry felt dismay swelling in his chest. He stood in front of Arthur, his bony hands gripping the chair.

The silence stretched on until Harry felt it would break from strain.

Arthur sighed deeply and raised his head, looking evenly at Harry. "I'll bring this up at dinner. Aunt Elizaveta will be coming this evening.

"What about Aunt Emma?" Harry asked before he could stop.

"She can't make it. She has something or other to do." Arthur paused, his eyes narrowing very slightly, like a curious cat. "Why do you ask? Is she your favorite aunt?"

"No," Harry said, "They usually come together."

"Is Eliza your favorite aunt then?"

"She's a lot of fun. Aunt Emma is very nice, though."

To this Arthur had no reply. He gestured for Harry to prepare for dinner. Harry obliged, wondering why Arthur would hold off on such news.

…

Aunt Elizaveta came at the exact time and embraced Harry first. Her mass of brown curls spilled over her shoulder and around her ovular, lovely face. She wasn't beautiful like a flower, no one would say that, but she was beautiful in a fierce, dangerous way: like a tigress. She stood, having greeted Harry and turned to Arthur.

"Why are you so grim?" She asked, her rich Hungarian accent lilting. She set her hands on her hips. She wore beige pants and a flowered top. Her muscles bulged beneath the loose fabric.

"Me? Grim?" Arthur asked, as if incredulous.

"Yes who else?" Elizaveta rolled her brown eyes and then laughed. She embraced him and shut the door behind her. She swung her red purse off her shoulders, heavy with nearly anything anyone could want at any given moment, and placed it on the couch. "Now, I hope you didn't cook, Arthur. Last time you did that I'm certain at least five people got sick."

"No. I bought it cooked from a nearby restaurant." Arthur explained sheepishly.

Elizaveta turned to Harry, her eyes dancing. "If you go to someone's house other than your father's and they say that, you should be ashamed and disappointed."

Harry nodded. His father could only cook breakfast. Sometimes, though, a French man named Francis came by with some home cooking. The man was gentle and romantic. Everything he did was affected with such a love of life that Harry couldn't help but feel love—for what he never knew. And his food carried that same flavor of compassion. Those were good days. Harry didn't quite understand why Arthur rarely invited him, though.

The three went to the table and sat down, beginning their meal. Harry was beginning to hope his father had forgotten about the news.

His hopes were shattered quickly.

"Does Harry look like the kind of boy who would get in trouble often?" Arthur asked, trying for a smooth divergence in the conversation.

Elizaveta cast a glance at Harry. "No. Then again, neither do you and Lord knows what trouble you can get into." She said. Arthur crimsoned. Harry stifled laughter.

"Well, then you're right." Arthur said at length, clearing his throat. "I got an interesting call from his teacher today. She said that Harry was found on the roof."

Elizaveta set her fork down and looked at Arthur, her eyebrows rising.

"She said he was sitting there, swinging his legs away without a care in the world. That's the first problem she addressed. The second was she claimed that Harry had, of all things, lied." He said, accented the word with feigned disgust. Harry had quite forgotten about his meal. "She said," Arthur continued, his eyes pinned on Elizaveta's, "She said that when she asked him how he got up there, he said he did not know—that he simply flew! She asked again and again, hoping to weasel some juicy truth out of him. I bet she was waiting for him to say he climbed up the staircase to throw rocks at little old ladies or some other rubbish."

"But I really don't know how I got up there! Honestly, I was running from Dudley and his gang and suddenly I flew up there." Harry protested, curling his fingers into a fist. He hated to be in trouble with Arthur more than anything, especially with his aunt as witness. Harry's cheeks burned and he felt like crying. Arthur said nothing. Harry looked towards him and discovered that Arthur was not angry with him at all. In fact, Arthur was beaming.

Arthur turned back to Elizaveta. "I don't know how to calm the little Devil in him. Do you? I mean, his birthday is coming up. I don't want to punish him too hard."

Elizaveta pursed her lips, as though giving it serious thought. She tapped her fingers against the wooden table.

"You know, you should get the maestro of trouble himself, shouldn't you? They'd get a along real well."

"You mean Alfred? Oh, good heavens no…" Arthur said, but his smile was seeping through the cracks in his acting.

Then, Harry understood. Arthur was finally letting him meet the uncle he wasn't allowed to before. He was told stories of how his Uncle Alfred—the Whirlwind, had stolen cars (and returned them, usually), gotten into troubling situation after troubling situation, and yet was still somehow likable enough for Matthew and Arthur both to grin at the recollection. Harry didn't know how much he wanted to meet the heroic figure until that moment.

"Really…?" Harry asked, incredulous.

"Yes, really." Arthur said. "I called him just after the call. He'll come by soon enough and believe me, he'll stay a while, long enough to get sick of him."

"Thank you…" Harry asked, somewhat breathless. Arthur had a habit of giving him exactly what he didn't know he wanted.

…

Harry was asleep, despite his excitement. Elizaveta and Arthur remained in the dining room. Elizaveta held a glass of wine in her hand. Arthur was content with a cup of tea. Steam poured from it slowly, shaped like knotted rope. The television was on behind Arthur, on mute. Images of the news flashed. Now they had gotten through the important articles and had moved on to what nice things people had done in the area.

"Isn't Harry almost eleven?" Elizaveta asked, raising her head. She had tied her hair back in a bun. The shape of her beautiful face was caressed in the golden lamplight.

Arthur nodded.

"I don't really understand your wizards that much." She said, "But I do know, from what you've told Emma and I, that at eleven they go to that school."

Arthur nodded again.

"Does he know?"

"I haven't told him anything… Not even about his parents." Arthur stooped to a whisper, in case Harry had his ear pressed against the door.

Elizaveta frowned deeply. Even the grimace didn't stagger her beauty. Arthur watched her lips return to their neutral position before she continued; "I don't think that's a good idea."

"I know it isn't." Arthur said. He set the cup aside and held his head in his hands, sighing deeply. "I made a bad mistake. I'll have to atone for it, I suppose, but I can't yet. I want Alfred here for that reason, mostly. I want him to comfort Harry. If anyone can offer support more than Alfred, then they have yet to be born. What a surprising gift…" Arthur added as an afterthought. He kept his head ducked.

The clock showed eleven forty three. Elizaveta stared at it and sighed. She set the empty glass down, licking her lips free of any remaining drops. One drop, like blood, fell on her hand. Arthur picked up a napkin and dabbed at it. Elizaveta thanked him and stood. She collected her purse and stood at the door.

They looked at each other seriously for some time, silent.

"Call me if you need anything." Elizaveta said and embraced Arthur, running her hand down his hair. "You're doing a great job as a father, Arthur. I think you need a reminder."

"Thank you." He said and pulled away, his eyes on her lips. A moment before drops of wine lingered on them, like blood. The image kept appearing in his head incessantly. He tried to shake it away and bade her good night. She nodded and turned to go to her car. Her hair bounced with each step. Her figure slid into the shadows of night, then into her car. It drove away and Arthur remained at the door, as if having been glued there.

He shut it and went to bed.

…

The day Alfred wanted to take Harry to the zoo happened to be the same day as Dudley's birthday.

"It's a great day for a nice walk to the zoo, isn't it?" Alfred asked, stretching. His t-shirt slid up his smooth belly, revealing a small scar. He bent down to ask Harry if he liked that. Harry nodded. "Great!"

Harry felt Alfred thump his back approvingly as he sauntered off to the kitchen. He was tall, not quite as tall as his brother, but bigger than most men. His arms were firm and his legs beneath his shorts thick with muscle. Alfred was barefooted, to Arthur's dismay. Arthur was ironing the clothing next to the windows, his sleeves rolled up and his feet in slippers.

"How about it?" Alfred asked loudly, his blue eyes glittering behind his glasses. Unlike Matthew, he didn't touch them often. Instead, he was excessively fond of pushing his thick, handsome blond hair back constantly and checking to see if the messy style was just as messy as it should be.

Arthur looked up from the white shirt in front of his hands. "How about what, Alfred?"

"How 'bout I take your son to the zoo. You don't want him to go his whole life without seeing a snake or two?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Arthur asked, his cheeks a scorching red. Harry didn't seem to hear his language. Harry was instead in his room getting dressed. Alfred had overslept and was therefore the only one who hadn't eaten breakfast yet.

"Can I take him to the zoo?"

"Go ahead," Arthur said, scratching his neck and placing the folded shirt in a basket. Alfred watched it fall before yawning loudly—everything he did seemed to be loud—and going to the kitchen for the breakfast Arthur had left him. He took the plastic wrap off and stuffed his mouth.

Arthur continued to iron, humming a tune. Gradually, he began to slow and the song faltered in his throat. He turned to Alfred who was downing a tall glass of milk. The bottom of his jaw was host to another thin scar.

The glass was empty in less than a minute. Alfred set it in the sink and went to get dressed. He stopped before exiting the room. His hand crawled up the small of his back and satisfied an itch there. "What is it, Arthur?" He asked.

Arthur seemed taken aback. "I was just wondering why you wanted to go to the zoo of all places."

Alfred shrugged once, the muscles of his back moving. "I like the zoo and I haven't seen the one here yet."

Still, Arthur was not satisfied. "Do you want to go somewhere else after that?"

Alfred laughed and this time turned to face Arthur, his arms akimbo. "What do you take me for? I'm not taking him to a strip club or anything. You sound like a worried dad sending his daughter off on a date."

"You didn't answer my question."

Alfred offered him a smart wink and went to dress.

In the time it took Arthur to get through half of the laundry, the two were dressed and done. Arthur didn't mind. He liked to iron, it was calming, and he loved the smell the iron produced when greeting fabric. Once he was done he could read a novel and then continue writing one of his own. The day seemed to fall fairly well into place. Besides, he knew that Alfred would never allow harm to come to Harry.

The two left, leaving Arthur alone.

Several minutes later, at the zoo, Alfred was bending before the gorilla exhibit and reading the plaque. The gorilla scratched its back, its beady eyes staring at the crowd complacently. Harry watched him. Alfred stood, like a mountain rising, and told Harry about what he read.

"Says you can't make eye contact and I don't blame them. I'd get mad too if a fellow looked at me funny through glass, like that kid." Alfred nodded his head over the crowd of people.

Harry followed his gaze. His stomach plummeted. Dudley and his friend named Piers were gawking at the gorilla, probably hoping to get the gorilla to do something. The gorilla stared impassively at them, apparently deciding the kids were not worth his trouble.

"Can we move on?" Harry asked, tugging at Alfred's sleeve.

"Sure, kiddo." Alfred turned and stared off towards another exhibit. Several people noticed his charming part-Southern accent and fastened their eyes on him, hoping for another taste of his voice. Alfred either didn't see them or ignored them.

They went through all the outdoor animals before entering the reptile house. Alfred stopped, grinning sheepishly. His cheeks paled. "How about you go in and I'll get you some ice cream?"

Harry, confused, agreed and entered the reptile house alone. He enjoyed looking at the variety of snakes and lizards. Their eyes, like drops of oil, followed him at times, but mostly remained to themselves. Children crowded around the tanks with the biggest snakes. Harry found Dudley and Piers around one, tapping the glass and moaning. Vernon stood behind them, apparently not having noticed Harry yet. He rapped his knuckles against the glass. Harry knew it was wrong but held his tongue. Part of him wished Alfred would buy the ice cream and get it over with.

Soon the three left from the glass. Harry ventured to it, trying not to be noticed. He looked in and discovered why they had been so flustered. The large snake with dark, glossy scales on its thick body was asleep. Harry could tell why they would be bored. He, however, enjoyed the look of the snake and its obvious power. The snake began to stir and slowly raise its head. It offered Harry a wink. Harry stared and winked back. He had a conversation with it that revealed it was bred there, but its species was native to Brazil. Just as Harry was about to ask it something else, he heard something akin to a pig's squeal.

"HARRY'S TALKING TO IT!" Dudley yelled, calling for his father. He rushed to the tank, shoving Harry over. Harry stumbled and nearly ran into Vernon. Vernon gave him a distasteful look and turned to the tank. Dudley and Piers leaned forwards, not realizing that the glass had vanished. Harry heard Petunia scream. She nearly tripped Harry in her frenzy. Harry rushed out of the building, but not without hearing the snake hiss a "thanksss" while playfully nipping at Dudley's ankles.

Alfred waited for him outside, watching the screaming people. He was doubled over with laughter, holding the popsicles before him. One was half eaten. Harry took the whole one, slowly moving away.

"What'd'ya do, Harry?" Alfred asked, tears in his eyes. "I could hear that lady shriek a mile off!" He pointed to Petunia being dragged off by the zookeepers. Dudley was already rambling on about how the snake nearly killed him twice over.

"I didn't do anything." Harry explained. His Popsicle tasted like lemons. A drop of its sweat ran down its side. He quickly made sure it would go to his hands.

"Sure, boy, sure…" Alfred said, finishing his popsicle and throwing it away. Harry did the same and told Alfred how the snake got loose.

Alfred paled again. "So you set a snake free, huh…?"

"No, the glass just vanished."

"Fair enough," Alfred said, still chuckling. "And Arthur there is saying you're just the mildest mannered kid in the world."

Before Harry could protest, heavy footsteps approached him. He turned and found the looming body of Vernon poised over him, like a boulder about to tilt over. He was a plum color with rage.

"Boy—you—not normal—!" He blithered, his fists tightening and relaxing. He managed to take several shallow, shaking breaths before pointing at Harry. "You did that!"

Harry stared. His heart thundered. Vernon was Dudley's father, so he was only inevitably a bigger, stronger Dudley. Harry tried to step back but couldn't move. He was paralyzed with fear and terror. He had never known a man to get so mad at him. Arthur rarely raised his voice.

Whenever Arthur was mad with him he'd let Harry know and he would turn icy cold with disappointment, which stung more than yelling. But Harry didn't think of that. Now he was trying to find something to say. He didn't have to.

"Sir," Alfred said, stepping forwards. He smoothly took Harry and put him behind him. Harry took Alfred's cuff for a second. Alfred gentle shook him off with a look that clearly said Harry was too old for that, before turning to Vernon. Then, smoothly, like a cop telling a young man to put that there gun down, he told Vernon to calm down. "Sir, what are you even doing yelling at some kid who isn't yours? I think you have greater problems with your own kin."

Harry couldn't hear what Alfred was saying over the relief that washed over him like a gentle wave. Vernon seemed terribly confused and embarrassed all at once. Eventually he backed off. Then it struck Harry that Alfred hadn't said anything to begin with. He only gave Vernon a look. Alfred turned to him and Harry could tell why. He had a look of wild power and absolute strength on his face; a calm, yet intensely insane gleam in his eyes.

"Let's go home." Alfred said. "I think we've had enough excitement… That is, unless you're still not satisfied."

He was suggesting something. Harry shrugged. "I guess we still have time to do something else."

"Good." Alfred said, putting his hand on Harry's mass of black hair and ruffling it. It was a gruff, hard shake.

…

Harry was disappointed.

They were standing in his neighborhood, heading towards his house. He had expected something big, like a game or movie. Alfred was still grinning madly. Harry wanted to say something but didn't. He couldn't overstep his boundaries, especially when he had this protector with him.

Alfred stopped abruptly, at the house right next to Arthur's. Harry took several steps and then waited for Alfred to do something.

"That man lives here, doesn't he? Arthur told me the kid here really likes to beat you up. I can't let that happen to a kid of Arthur's, now can I?" He asked smoothly, ruffling Harry's hair again. Harry adjusted his glasses and nodded, curious and excited. "Then let's do a good old fashioned prank. Come on."

To Harry's surprise, the fully grown adult man jumped the fence and snuck into the Dursley's backyard. Alfred mucked around the garden for some time, until Harry approached him and waited.

"Look at this guy, doesn't he look like he wants a nice, comfortable home?" Alfred asked, holding a spider in his hand. Harry laughed.

"I think Dudley would crush it before he noticed it, though. And how are we going to get in? I don't live here." Harry said, looking over the suburban house and hoping no one would notice, especially Arthur.

The window to Harry's house was empty. Arthur wasn't at home. Harry felt slightly more at ease. Alfred went to the house and climbed up to one of the windows. He peered in, hanging precariously.

"Harry, do me a favor." Alfred called down. His arms were flexing. He had done this before, a lot, it struck Harry.

"What is it?"

Alfred pushed the window open and set the spider on the sill, shutting it. He was staring into the empty room Dudley used to keep all his presents, including an old television set. He described the insides of the room to Harry, his face reddening from the strain of holding on.

"Now, what would be something mighty evil to do to it?"

"Well if they attacked Dudley tonight, I think that would be funny."

Alfred climbed back down, panting. He brushed his hair back, laughing.

"Do me the favor, then. Tonight, I want you to imagine that all happening, okay?"

Harry, confused again, agreed.

That night he did as he was told, not saying a word about it to Arthur. Several minutes later, he heard Dudley's pig like scream pierce the air and, along with it, the whirlwind howled in glee. Harry wondered how something so crazy and weird could have brought Alfred bliss. He didn't know just how much Alfred could hold up his sleeves, then.

* * *

_Thank you again for the reviews! _

_And to make things clear, part II of this won't be for a little while. _


	6. Speak Slowly

**6.**

**Speak Slowly**

"Rise and shine, Harry!"

Harry started awake. He looked around the room, blinking quickly, and scrambling for his glasses. Once his vision had adjusted and he could look through the fine shards of sunlight, he found Alfred standing before him. Harry yawned and bade him good morning, slowly climbing out of bed. Alfred moved to the door way, leaning against the frame.

On his face was a gentle smile. His eyes had a nurturing gleam, like a man watching his horse win a race. He stepped back into the hall.

"Happy Birthday, Harry," Arthur's voice came from behind Alfred. Arthur took Alfred's place and entered the room. He went to Harry and briefly embraced him. He rumpled his hair and Harry thanked him, laughing.

"Get ready, kiddo, I'm taking you somewhere for your birthday." Alfred said, already moseying down the hall. Arthur watched him leave and nodded at Harry to get moving.

After Harry had hastily dressed, now freshly eleven years old, he raced out to meet Alfred at the door. Alfred was taking him out to breakfast, he had said, and they shut the door, leaving Arthur alone in the house. Arthur sighed heavily and rubbed his temples. Today was the day, wasn't it?

Not long after Alfred had left with Harry, a gently knocking met the door. Arthur stared at it for some time, biting his lower lip. Inevitably there would be a letter there, printed on fine parchment, with a red seal on its cover, waiting to change and corrupt his life. His heart pounded. He went slowly to the door and raised his hand, placing it on the handle, and collected his courage. He pulled it open and instead of finding a letter or an owl, he found Emma. She embraced him and bustled in.

"Can you believe Harry's eleven already?" She said shrilly, grinning. "Only a few minutes, no, _seconds_ ago he was just a little kid. Really, time flies by so quickly. I bet it flies by even quicker for you, the father in charge. Imagine, if I'm the aunt and… Yes?"

She stopped prattling and cast her large, pretty eyes on Arthur. Arthur let out a shaky laugh. "Sorry, no, continue."

Emma smiled and held out a bag swathed in several golden and silver bows and ribbons. It caught the light and gleamed dangerously. "It's for Harry." She said. Arthur took it and set it aside, next to his present to Harry.

Aunt Emma stood before him, only slightly shorter. She had a cottony mass of blonde hair around her head, framing a round face with plump, sweet pink lips. She wore a pale green dress that constricted around her small waist and puffed out where her hips curved, broadly. Her circumflex eyebrows rose when she examined Arthur's expression.

"Oh," she said faintly. Her eyes batted demurely. "Today's the day, isn't it? The day the liar is revealed."

"I'm not a liar. I never exactly claimed to be his father."

"But you never said otherwise."

"Well, that _is_ true I suppose, but—no, oh, Emma, I don't know." Arthur said, slumping.

"Don't sulk." Emma said sharply. "Tell me why…" she stopped. There was another knock on the door. She went to open it, seeing as Arthur refused to budge. Again, instead of a letter, there was a human being. Francis stepped in, consuming the scenery and embracing Emma.

She surveyed his features and laughed, kissing his cheek in European manner and stepping back. Francis then tried to greet Arthur, but Arthur refused, giving him a scalding look instead.

Francis spread his arms out in a look of sympathy, placing his gift for Harry next to Emma's. "Come on, Arthur, it can't be that bad. At least he knows he's adopted."

Emma shook her head, briskly clicking her tongue.

"Then…" Francis stumbled, at a loss for words. He offered Arthur a comforting look.

Before either could say a word, the note finally slipped in from under the door, by an owl no doubt. Francis went to pick it up, stooping. His silk scarf brushed against the floor, caught partially by his blue gauzy jacket. Arthur pounced on the letter instead. He held it between his thumb and finger, ready to tear it open. He challenged the two to stop them.

"I refuse to let him go. He'll live here with normal humans. I don't want him hounded on by other children because he's a hero. He doesn't remember a damn thing about whatever the hell he did to be a hero!" Arthur snapped.

"He doesn't have friends here." Francis rebutted gently. "He would fine better people there that he can fit in with. You know more than anyone what it feels like to have some undeniable part of your being suppressed. It's painful and can crush his spirit, especially since he's a child."

"Well I don't want him to go."

"You can handle parting with him for a few months, can't you?" Emma chimed in. "Let him be free. You can start yelling when he finally becomes an adult. He's still a kid. He'll still rely on you."

Francis's cheeks reddened. "No, you're just afraid of what he'll do when he catches you in your lie. Arthur, I've never said this to anyone and I'll never say it again, but you've stooped to a new level of stupidity over an asinine lie."

Arthur's eyes darted from Emma to Francis, and then stopped between them. They burned like fire. "I made a mistake for not telling him sooner. But I still stand by that decision. What good would it be if he grew up with that sorrow?"

"Better than finding out at this age, I bet." Francis said, having calmed down to his usual reasonable self.

Emma nodded. "There's no argument here anyway. Just tell him and go with the pain. There's no point in fighting sorrow and agony. It'll always be there."

"What if he gets hurt?" Arthur whispered. His eyes moistened. He still clutched the letter between his hands and slowly lowered his head. "What if there's something worse waiting for him. I don't want him hurt or killed…"

Francis's argument died in his throat. He let out a strangled gasp. Arthur wasn't worried about being exposed as a fraud. The idea that Harry would hate him stung with a passion, but was nothing but a bug bite compared to the jaw-wrenching torture of having Harry's life stolen by an unknown evil.

"Arthur…"

"We need Elizaveta." Emma said softly. "She can help him. Only one who can, I bet."

With no protests, Emma and Francis went to the kitchen to do what they came for, to bake a cake. Arthur slumped back on the couch, clutching the letter. He didn't cry. Tears wanted desperately to leap from his eyes. He held them back, breathing slowly.

Emma placed the batter on the table and whipped it while Francis adjusted the oven. They worked in silence. Slowly, like smoke from a flame, the sweet smell of baking exuding from the kitchen. The sun continued to beat down on them.

How many people would have celebrated Harry's birthday if he had grown up with his aunt and uncle? Arthur wondered this. They would have ignored it, wouldn't they? Maybe they would have thrown a dirty old sock his way and called it a birthday present with a sly, slimy grin spreading across their face.

Elizaveta arrived half an hour later. She kissed Emma and Francis hello and stared at Arthur, her red bag slowly slipping from her shoulder. She set it aside and sat next to Arthur, taking his calloused hand in hers. Both their hands were tough and unwelcoming, but together they discovered a pocket of warmth. She said nothing, running her thumb along his knuckles.

"Alfred will help."

Arthur nodded once, ashamed of his outburst. Elizaveta stood without another word and took the letter, placing it on the pile of presents.

…

"You're a wizard, Harry."

Harry stood, dumbfounded. Alfred was next to him, wondering what to say. Harry had come home from a trip around the city and discovered three warm, welcoming faces, and one grim, stony one. Arthur stared at him coldly. His eyes were distant and troubled. Harry blinked, begging his pardon.

"You're a wizard, Harry. Read the letter."

Harry moved sluggishly, as if in a dream, and picked up the letter. He tore it open. His eyes slid past the words three times before he could comprehend any of the script before him.

"Is this a joke?"

"No, Harry, it's real. You used magic to make the glass vanish and to get on the rooftop."

Harry's mouth opened, working for words and making none.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I'm a horrible father, that's why." Arthur said, sulking.

"No you aren't…"

"I'm not even your father. Your father and mother died, leaving you with that scar and an orphan. I found you on my doorstep and took you in and raised you."

Harry's head swam. He felt confused, excited, elated! _HE WAS A WIZARD! _But also he felt angry and betrayed and upset… Was that screaming woman and the green light, so far in his mind and possibly his earliest memory his mother's death scene? Was he really without true blood family in his life? He looked around the room. No, a tiny voice said in protest, these people around him were his family. These people cared enough to bake him a cake and throw him a happy birthday party. They weren't his mother and father, though, they weren't James and Lily Potter, names that Arthur mumbled to him.

"And the Dursley family next door are you aunt, uncle, and cousin." Arthur added.

"I… I…"

"You hate me, then, don't you?" Arthur asked immaturely. Elizaveta shot him a scalding look. He was the adult and here he was, acting like a kid going through a moody phase. Arthur didn't return it. His brows were furrowed and his jaw slack. Emma touched Elizaveta's elbow and pulled her away.

"N-no, I just…" Harry held the letter and ran to his room, his feet making even thumps along the way. Alfred watched him leave. The rest fell silent. Francis tended to the pastry, trying to clear his head.

Emma and Elizaveta exchanged looks. Elizaveta fingered the ring around her finger. Emma was tempted to play with hers, but refrained. She approached Arthur, brushing a strand of her thick hair behind an ear. Her green eyes, under heavy eyelashes, searched Arthur's. She mumbled something and Arthur shook her hand off his shoulder.

Her blue necklace hung down her swan's neck, rocking slowly. Alfred left the room, following Harry.

…

Arthur looked up to find Harry next to him. "I'm sorry, Harry."

"No, it's fine, dad…" Harry said quietly. Arthur hugged him, rumpling his hair, and breathing a sigh of relief. He never did find out what Alfred said to him or how exactly Harry had reacted to the news.

* * *

_Although this story is not about romance but rather about the father-son relationship between Arthur and Harry, I will mention a very, very minute detail about a certain romance playing in the background. I hope it's not obnoxious or obvious which pairings I adore, since they are not important to the plot. However, if you can't stand them, although understandable, I would offer you one piece of advice to be used not only with me but with any new pairing: look for the chemistry. I want you to believe it when two people are good friends or a good couple and not just use a pairing to advertise and exploit to make this story more popular, or anything like that. Pairings should come naturally. The characters should fall in love, the author shouldn't have to force them together. _

_I apologize for the tangent, but I felt it needed to be said. Thank you for reviewing and all that good stuff, you're making the story happen!_


	7. Waiting for Trains

**7.**

**Waiting for Trains**

Arthur walked through Diagon Alley, his hands deep in his pockets. Crowds of witches and wizards swarmed past, chatting, and holding on to their children. Many of them were going into their first year in Hogwarts, just like Harry. Arthur caught sight of a girl no older than his son holding her new cat and petting it gently. She had a long, ovular face and a sweet smile. Maybe she would be in Harry's house.

A raven head bobbed in the crowd, next to a large, hairy one. Harry and Hagrid marched through the streets together. Hagrid explained the wizard's world to him merrily. Harry listened with twinkling eyes, traipsing past Arthur and barely noticing him. Arthur watched with growing dismay and turned away. He hadn't been in the Alley for nearly thirty years. He knew nothing of the world he had once relied upon. Dumbledore had sent Hagrid to help Harry gather supplies and teach him about what he missed.

Then, Arthur would take him to the train station. Arthur's reflection skidded by, bouncing across the glass. He stopped abruptly and turned, his head driven by some unknown force. He stared back at himself in the shop's window. His eyes were alive and swimming with tears. He hastily brushed them away. Behind his reflection was a broom, brand new and gleaming. Arthur approached it and placed his fingertips against the glass, looking at the new design. The lithe handle stuck out of the podium, waiting for a hand to guide it through the air.

Harry's father was good at Quidditch. No, not good—great, he was fantastic. He was the top of the top, the best of the best. Arthur barely remembered how to fly. He had refused to since…

Arthur frowned, forcing the past out of his mind. He wasn't Harry's father. He never would be James Potter, no matter how hard he tried and how much he loved him. Arthur brushed at his eyes again, this time aggressively. He didn't need someone to take a look at him and laugh.

. . .

Harry waited to be fitted for robes. Next to him was a boy he had never seen before, a lanky, slim boy with flat blond hair and clear, bitter eyes. They turned on Harry and measured him up. In this moment they could be friends or they could be enemies. Harry looked over at him and suddenly a patch of distaste erupted within him, like an itch on his skin.

The boy reminded him of Dudley, although slimmer and cleaner. The boy gave him a tense smile and began to prattle on about his father and just how amazing he was.

Harry wanted to slap him to get him to shut up. He took another look into the boy—Draco Malfoy's—eyes and discovered a thread of glimmering hope, or something pure and clean within him. When he looked at Dudley he saw nothing but filth brought down from parents bred in jealousy and drenched in prejudice. Arthur had told him constantly not to judge someone in a split second unless he had to, and then he should take a good long look at their eyes…

Malfoy, however, retained something yet to be destroyed. Draco turned his slim face at Harry. Fate balanced precariously. She danced graciously, rising on her toes, and then toppled. Harry smiled at Draco.

. . .

"Why can't my father come with me?" Harry asked, looking at Hagrid for an explanation.

Hargid's heavy shoulders shifted in a shrug. "Yeh'll have te ask Dumbledore. I know 'im no better than you."

. . .

"Come on, Harry, let's get going." Arthur said, bustling through the train station. Harry held his ticket to platform 9 3/4 . Pushing his cart ahead, Hedwig hooted in the front. She flapped her huge, snowy white wings and looked around, wondering whatever all the haste was about.

Arthur patted Harry's shoulder. They stopped between platforms nine and ten. Arthur surveyed the groups of people. Something in him desperately urged him to his next move. Something that was not his human half but the other, the greater, the half that conducted his nation that held powers beyond even what he knew—that something was screaming at him to stop and take a breath.

A family of fiery red hair trooped past. At the front was a short, comely woman. She told her children to follow, beckoning them with a wave of her hand. Arthur leaned down. "Harry, see that family? As the nice lady if she can tell you how to get in."

Harry gave him a curious look, but obeyed. He moved to the Weasley family and shyly asked if they would help him get in. In a flurry of calls and laughter, Harry vanished from the platform. Arthur followed shortly after, merging in with the crowd of parents waving their children off. He shouldered his way to the front. It was not at all necessary. People moved away from him as if by instinct. Their faces showed no hint that they noticed him.

Arthur stood before the train, seeing Harry at one of the windows. He raised his hand and waved goodbye. Harry smiled at him and waved, excitement brimming with a splash of sadness.

. . .

"Who's that?" Ron asked, scrunching his freckled face and scratching the side of his nose.

"That's my father." Harry explained.

"Looks young, doesn't he?"

Harry shrugged. He never really noticed just how youthful his father consistently looked. He didn't notice how several of the girls on the train poked their heads out their windows to get a look at the man. When he waved they searched for his child. Harry Potter of all people!

. . .

The train had left a long time ago, but Arthur remained standing there in its midst, like a ghost waiting for something that would never come. He watched the empty train tracks for some time. A paper fluttered to them, driven by a light breeze. The rest of the parents had dispersed, taking younger children away.

He turned away and walked slowly, reentering the common people outside. Something different waited just beyond the stones walls. He kept his head up, not heeding any turned faces or wary glances. He took his time. It was, after all, a long walk home.

* * *

_I apologize for how short this chapter turned out to be. _

_Any readers of one of my other stories, Precious Roses, may notice the title of this chapter to be familiar... Well, let's just say that should be a clue. _


	8. A Matter of Names

**8.**

**A Matter of Names**

Harry trundled back to his seat, dumping the pile of wizard candy. He smiled. His pockets jingled with his parents' money. Arthur had not given him an allowance, saying that if Harry wanted something he should just ask. Now Harry felt a wave of responsibility raising him out of adolescence. Ron looked at the chocolates and pasties hungrily. In his lap he had the miserable sandwiches, next to his snoozing rat.

"Want some?" Harry asked, holding out a pasty.

"No, I have these sandwiches Mum packed me."

"I'll trade."

Being a lonely child without friends his age, Harry hungered for a chance to share something, anything. And now he had a friend who he could do that with. Ron obliged happily. He explained the various candies and the cards, showing Harry one of Dumbledore. Harry regarded the old man with snowy whiskers and wiry spectacles in awe. Now he had a face to a legendary name.

Harry munched on a chocolate frog, smearing across his face. He rubbed it off with his thumb, turning out to the window. He watched as the fields spread before him, spotted with stones and plants. Trees swayed in the late summer breeze, their leaves rustling like feathers. Ribbons of river crossed the country, shimmering powerfully in the sun. Several fluffy clouds leisurely drifted through the blue sky.

"Do you have any siblings?" Ron asked. "I mean, adopted, I guess."

"No. Well, my uncles are like siblings." Harry said.

Ron leaned closer, his eyes begging to hear more.

"I have two uncles I see the most: Matthew and Alfred. They're brothers though one lives in Canada and the other in America."

"Have you been there?"

"Not yet. Though maybe I could go soon…" Harry considered it. What an adventure! He wondered if Alfred had more wild family there. "But I don't think Dad would let me stay near Uncle Alfred for too long."

"Why not?"

"Well, he's wild—that's what Dad says at least." Harry then launched into a retelling of one of Alfred's exploits as a child, where he nearly set his school on fire in an attempt to woo one of his school crushes. Ron stared, asking questions every now and then about this or that Muggle contraption. "So once he had gotten the flour and a cigarette lighter—a thing that makes fire—he went to a cage that kept the class turtle and…" Harry stopped.

The doors to their compartment had slid open. A boy with a wide, teary face stood there. "Have you seen a toad?" he asked, sniffing loudly. He was a first year, like Ron and Harry. His lip quibbled. Ron and Harry shook their heads. The boy, Neville Longbottom, left. Ron turned to Harry and complained about his rat some more.

Ron told Harry of a spell that should have made Scabbers yellow. It failed, leaving Ron's wand hanging unimpressively in the air. A girl had been with Neville. Now she returned to their compartment, giving them a toothy smile. Her two front teeth jutted out from all the others. Around her head was a mess of cottony brown hair. She had thick eyebrows and pretty eyes.

"I've never heard of that spell." She said.

Ron muttered about his twin brothers. She didn't leave and remained in the entrance. She slid into the compartment and daintily sat down next to Harry.

"I'm Hermione Granger." She said. "I think we should be getting there soon. You might want to get your uniforms on."

"There's still plenty of time." Ron mumbled to the ground.

"I'm Harry Kirk—Potter." Harry said, sticking out his hand. Hermione shook it curtly. Harry reminded himself that as long as he was at Hogwarts he needed to introduce himself as Potter. The name however refused to become personal and strayed away from him, like an alias or celebrity name. Harry tried vainly to apply it to himself, that _he really was_ the Harry Potter. It didn't. The only thing he had to argue for it was the fancy scar on his forehead.

"Oh, yes, I've read about you." Hermione said, "As a bit of background reading, you know?"

Harry nodded. Hermione reminded him of someone. But who…? Oh, that's right—Harry thought, she reminded him of his father. Harry listened to her explain Hogwarts from what she knew about reading and could sense the same energy, the same passion for knowledge that Arthur had. Hermione was of course very different from the Arthur Harry was familiar with. If he had known Arthur only a few years prior he would have seen a greater semblance. The thought caused Harry to warm up to Hermione much more quickly than Ron. Ron still thought she was an annoying know it all girl.

Hermione left to help Neville find his toad before they arrived.

"We should get dressed soon." Ron said, starting to clean up.

Before they could, the doors rattled open again. Standing like a wax candle was Draco Malfoy. Ron frowned, recognized the Slytherin. Harry smiled again. Draco's grin twitched and became a fragment gentler.

"So, I hear you are the real Harry Potter." Draco said.

"You bet he is." Ron said defensively. Harry nodded mutely. He still didn't feel like Harry Potter.

"I believe I met you before." Draco said, giving Ron a venomous look.

"You did, while getting fitted for your robes." Harry said.

"Don't listen to him, Harry." Ron interjected. "He's a bloody Slythern. They're all cheats!"

Harry turned to Draco, still offering a small smile. Draco faltered. His face visibly shifted expressions until he decided on one of vague worry. "Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, then." Draco said and moved away with his two silent goons following him.

"How can you stand to smile at him?" Ron asked, aghast.

"He doesn't seem all bad, just a little… lost." Harry said, searching for the right words. Later Harry would realize that Ron and Draco were more similar than either would admit.

. . .

"Hmm… You'd make a good Slytherin, Potter."

Harry stared into the inner lining of the Sorting Hat. "They don't seem all bad, but everyone makes it out like they're evil." Harry thought with little conviction.

"True, true, that seems to be the case. But you can't deny that they have some respectable qualities. They're cunning, ambitious, and unrelenting. Besides, in some cultures green is a natural, earthy color. Aye, I see something a little deeper. What is it?"

Harry waited. The rest of the hall held their breaths, wondering where the marvelous Harry Potter was bound to go. The Hat seemed to be taking its time with this one. Even the teachers spared Harry a longer glance.

"Ah I see it!" The Sorting Hat exclaimed in Harry's head. "You were raised by Arthur Kirkland, I can see it, you're Harry Kirkland and Harry Potter both, oh yes, let's put you then in the right house for your courage and valor.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The table erupted into a flurry of applause. Ron's older brothers hooted with glee. Harry cast his eyes briefly at the Slytherin table. Draco met his gaze and seemed both disappointed and friendly. Harry was thumped across the back. He was in for a wild year.

Minerva examined the tables before her. Food glittered and appeared before them, following Dumbledore's speech. Dumbledore had sat down. Now, as he dragged his hand through his beard, he turned his attention to her. "How interesting," she said.

"What's so interesting, if I may ask?" He picked his goblet and took a sip.

"When Potter was first enlisted, he was under the Ks. Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know. If he took his aunt and uncle's name he would have been under D. Why would he be under K?" Dumbledore conjectured, his thin eyebrows rising.

"It could have been an error." Minerva suggested, looking around and finding Harry.

Harry sat among a sea of his peers, chatting and gazing around the marvelous hall. They tossed their heads back to enjoy the enchanted ceiling and floating candles. Many pointed and let out streams of giggles. Harry turned to his newfound friend, Ron, and started to wonder about how the year would go. It didn't even seem like school, or real.

"He looks much too happy to have been raised by that atrocious family." Minerva said quietly.

"Are you trying to say he was raised by someone else?"

"I am only making a hypothesis. He looks like a healthy young boy with a proper, even good, upbringing. I doubt his uncle and aunt could have changed their ways so quickly. I had seen them, you know, they overstuffed their own son and treated him like a pig ready for slaughter."

Dumbledore turned pensive. He stared into the crowds, his eyes hard as stone. He raised a fork to his lips and didn't taste the food as it passed over his tongue. When Minerva began to worry he would never answer, he cleared his throat. "I'll ask Hagrid, then. He went to the house to get him, after all."

* * *

_I won't write all of what happened during the school year. You've all already heard the story so why repeat it? I don't plan to rewrite the entire books. _

_Thank you again for your reviews!_


	9. It's A Long Way Home

**9.**

**It's A Long Way Home**

Arthur held the steering wheel, driving in silence. Next to him Elizaveta kept her eyes evenly on the road. Orange light bathed the black streets. Cars with oily red lights slid past smoothly: all like a dream. The radio played quietly.

_Well, my friends, the time has come. Raise the roof and have some fun. _

Elizaveta tapped her fingers along the seat in tune.

_We're going to party. Karamu, fiesta, forever. Come on and sing along!_

"I didn't know you liked Lionel Richie." Elizaveta commented.

"It's such a soothing song, especially for driving at night."

Elizaveta nodded in agreement. She wore a blue sequenced dress that glimmered in the night's gentle lights. Her hair was along one shoulder, thick and smooth. She wore little make up, but the drops she wore perfected her appearance. Arthur had trouble keeping his eyes away from her. He focused on the road ahead.

"I think Harry's having a good time." Elizaveta said.

She had addressed the big, heaving, sweaty elephant in the room. Arthur nodded once. "I was planning on writing him a letter tonight, asking him how he is and maybe sending him something he would miss while there."

The road turned. Arthur went with it and parked before a dimly lit restaurant. He exited the car and went around. He held out a hand for Elizaveta to take. She briefly touched it, but ignored it otherwise. They went inside. The place was playing quiet jazz music. Food barely had a scent. Nothing seemed to have potency. The lights were muffled, the sound was repressed, and even the food had little flavor. All the same, Arthur enjoyed the place. He and Elizaveta took a seat near the window, ordering the special from a waiter with several piercings in one ear.

Their table was round and set behind a black curtain, pulled to show the street outside. The city moved in its wet lights, soaked from the rain of the afternoon. Elizaveta leaned against the table, resting her chin on her palm. The wine she ordered was placed next to her. Her fingers met with the fine stem of glass and pinched.

"The city seems so quiet today…" Elizaveta mumbled sleepily.

Arthur nodded. Had the world started to doze? To take a nap before it would be rudely awakened by fate and destiny and a boy who lived? Arthur didn't like to think of any of it.

He settled back in his seat, adjusting his dress shirt. He pinched a little tail that stuck out from his black pants and put it in place. If anyone looked they would assume the two were a rich couple.

Elizaveta turned to face Arthur, not noticing the food a slim hand slipped under her nose. Arthur watched her, gripping his fork. There was a tapping at the window. She turned her face away, tearing away from Arthur's bright green eyes. She watched the spattering of rain steadily increase into a moody bout of rain. Each sound was like a patient stranger knocking on a door. A flash of lighting lit up the sky, painting her face white.

But even that was numb. Arthur barely felt the shock of the rumble or the hiss of the rain. Everything felt too far away, as if he was slowly sinking beneath the surface, watching the ocean above rock with a storm.

"Why is Harry committed to this life?" Elizaveta asked, taking a bite of her salad.

"I can't control that. Part of me thinks that I did, that I was not meant to have him. And by having him I've changed his life. But what needs to be done needs to be done. There's nothing I can do or say that will change it. I can take Harry out of school there and put him in one of the grim boarding schools here. He'll be miserable as hell, but at least he would be safe. He's also a child. He doesn't need all this."

Elizaveta watched him, gauging his range of expressions. Arthur gave her a helpless look, the look a father gives a child when he bears bad news. "It won't all happen this year, I don't think so. He's destined for something, didn't you say? There's a prophecy."

"Yes, there is, and there's no way around it. It would be like Oedipus Rex trying to kill his mother and not his father."

"And it's no better than us."

"Yes, no better—now, hold on, what are you getting at?" Arthur asked, baffled. Elizaveta turned on him again, frowning. She had been directing the course of the conversation and had now reached her goal. She stood proudly on it, fiercely determined to carry it through.

"We live the same life over and over and over again. Each time with a different set of technology and a different set of faces being the only difference. We wake up, we go to war, we make amends, and then we war again. These ideas in the people just stay, refusing to move an inch." Elizaveta said, sighing. "What's the point of it anyway?"

Arthur cracked a grin. "Are you having a midlife crisis, Eliza?"

"Perhaps I am."

"Well, there's no way out. It's a journey. We don't know the destination, well, we actually do, but it's a long way away and we just have to fight to get there. We have an advantage, though, since we have bigger lives we have bigger destinations."

"What is the destination?"

"What could it be? It's home."

"It's a long way home, then. Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes, it is."

"And what if it's destroyed? What if we never get there?"

"What can we do?"

"That's what bothers me about Harry. The boy is thrown into a life he doesn't deserve to suffer through, on a journey that's full of blood and death, and he may not even make it to the bright future that's promised."

The idea of finding Harry stone dead sent a shiver through Arthur's body, like being struck with a dull blade. He pictured, despite himself, Harry's small face upwards, scarred and bloody, with dried tears along the cheeks. The eyes that provided those tears were hollow. The hand that would bring the eyelids down was not his own but some foreign company there to witness Harry's going, still happy since now the world was rid of some evil even Arthur was unsure of. Arthur knew a lot about a mortal of his country's life and where they would end up. Nothing was clear, though, like staring through a layer of smeared film.

Before Arthur could shake his head free, two arms enveloped him in an embrace. He started, looking to his side. Elizaveta had her strong arms around him. Her fingers ran through his hair. He head was nestled into her chest. The navy beads poked into his cheek.

"I'm sorry to bring that all up." She said softly. "I didn't mean to hurt you. There's time, a lot of it, and we don't know what will happen. There are a thousand lives that we can live in the future, but when we get there, there'll only be one. Best strive for the nicest one. Let's help Harry rather than worry."

Arthur buried his face in her soft body and pulled her closer. No one had helped him like she did. She had so much to do, but she had cut out time for him and Harry. He felt indebted. He told her this. Her breath smelled of wine.

"I chose to do this. Don't thank me." She pulled away, pressing his hand.

Sitting back across from him, she allowed a moment of silence to pass between them. No one spoke. No one thought anything. She stared into his eyes and he into hers. She turned to her meal and finished it. Arthur did so, allowing his mind to congeal into a mush of thoughts and feelings. He didn't want to feel anything anymore, but he had no choice. His life was spiraling way out of his control.

"Tell Harry I said hello in the letter." She said at length.

"Of course, Eliza." Arthur said and raised his glass to her. "You make a lovely mother figure, don't you?"

"I had practice with Feliciano." She said, glowing at the memory. The feisty, blood thirsty warrior had a soft spot for children.

. . .

Harry sat at breakfast. Hedwig hooted, flapping her wings. Harry took the letter and package from her, giving her a nibble of food. She gave him the happiest expression an owl could and fluttered off. Ron and Hermione leaned over his shoulders.

"What is it?"

The package had a collection of imported Canadian and American candy. He offered some to his two best friends. They happily tried them. The letter he kept to himself, reading it over twice. He folded it and set it in his robes, planning a letter to write in return.

* * *

_Lyrics are from Lionel Richie's _All Night Long_, which I do not own._

_Hope I gave you something to think about... After all, you do so much for me, I need to give you something in return!_


	10. Old Man Unknown

**10. **

**Old Man Unknown**

"You know, your father really is very young looking." Ron said.

Hermione perked up, looking towards Harry curiously. Harry watched the two, wondering where they intended to take this expository sentence. Ron leaned back. They had discussed the Philosopher's Stone and realized its prowess against time. Hermione fingered the pages of her book, showing the signs and symbols unknown to either.

"Yes, he does look very young." Harry said.

"How old is he, do you know?" Hermione asked.

"Of course, he's thirty… I think." Harry stopped, baffled. He had never asked anyone of his relatives' ages, let alone his father's. He leaned back in the chair, looking out the window. He had only to wait a few more days to go home for the summer, exhausted from his adventures. They neared the last day with both excitements for a break and with dread of leaving the magical, dreadfully captivating castle.

Arthur was at least thirty, wasn't he? He didn't look that way.

"Maybe he had used the stone."

"He's not a wizard, though." Harry said. "I don't think he is. He says he doesn't know any magic."

"He knew you belonged here, though." Ron said.

Harry considered. He really had no idea who his father was. And neither did Dumbledore when he asked him the following evening.

* * *

_Sorry this chapter is so short. I had quite literally only fifteen minutes to write it. _

_I hope you like a splash of darkness in your stories. _


	11. Cats in the Cradle

**11.**

**Cats in the Cradle**

Harry stared at the familiar set of eyes in his room. He held his homework in one hand and with the other a quill poised above the ink. The eyes he had seen several days before, peeking from the bushes and occasionally wincing when Dursley threw a hissy fit. Then, they vanished, and Harry forgot about them.

Now, they were placed disproportionately across a house elf's face. "Um, hullo," Harry said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Afternoon light pooled into the room, turning Dobby's pale features even whiter and gaunter. "Who are you?"

"Dobby, Harry Potter sir!" The house elf said, giving a bow. His rag of an outfit hung loosely across his wiry body.

"Hello, Dobby," Harry said. He patted the side of his bed. "Why don't you sit down?" Dobby began to cry shrilly. Harry's heart leapt to his throat.

That was how he met Dobby.

Once Dobby had explained his purpose in teary earnestness, he asked; "What terrible family must Harry Potter sir live with?"

"Terrible family?" Harry asked blankly. "I don't have a terrible family."

Dobby stared in confusion. "But your aunt and uncle!"

"No, I live with my father, Arthur." Harry said.

"Arthur? Oh, you must promise never to tell him about Dobby!" He bawled, clutching Harry's fist. "He can't know of this! Harry cannot go to Hogwarts!"

"What will I tell him, then?" Harry asked, flustered. He didn't care what some snotty little elf wanted him to do.

. . .

Harry did not know what to say to Arthur, so he told him the truth. Arthur stared at him over his book. He gently slipped a red mark into the pages and shut it. The wind caused the hair on his forehead to tremble. He set the book down and gestured for Harry to come closer. Harry did, sitting next to him.

Arthur sighed, rubbing his forehead. "So do you think that a house elf would leave his own family to tell a twelve year old boy what to do just for a laugh?"

"No, I don't think he's right. Isn't Hogwarts safer?"

"A knife is as dangerous on the outside as on the inside of a fence, there's only the difficulty of how quick it can get to you. Other than that, it is still sharp and can kill you." Arthur said, placing his chin on his palm. He stared at a picture frame perched on the table. Harry didn't look at it.

"Are you telling me I can't go?" Harry asked, frowning. He ran a hand through his thick hair, like his father did, and clutched a tuft of raven black. Arthur watched him, calculating each shift of his eyes and each sharp breath he took. He could sense the foreboding leaking into Harry's young mind, poisoning each thought and turning it mean.

"No, I'm telling you to think about it." Arthur said, calmly, "I won't force you to stay if you think it's best that you think it over. In the meantime you should visit your friend, Ron Weasley. He called and asked you to stay a few says over the summer. When you go tell him I can hear him perfectly well without him having to yell."

Harry tried to stop, drinking in the good news like juice after something bitter. "Oh." He managed to squeak out. Arthur did not meet his eyes. He remained locked on to the picture frame, playing with the ends of his sleeves.

In the picture frame was a row of heavily stenciled letters. Surrounding it were finely drawn grape vines, curling around a circular frame and holding the words close, as if to preserve their meaning. Arthur had received it from Feliciano Vargas, his Italian friend who Harry had yet to meet. It arrived in a tightly packaged box with white tissue lining. Arthur not kept it there as a reminder of who he was. Harry bent down and hugged Arthur briefly around the neck. Arthur patted his arm

The picture said: _libera me domine. _


	12. Watching the Shadows

**12.**

**Watching the Shadows**

Arthur stared at the house before him, thinking he chose the worst day possible to move in. His slick black car was parked beside the driveway, its trunk yawning open. Inside several boxes waited to be placed inside. Arthur sighed and dug his hands deeper into his dark pockets. Rain spattered against the house and the grass. Beaded cars rolled by. Everything felt slow and muted.

An hour in the rain felt like a year, or two, but two of the fastest years then. Arthur pushed his soaked hair back and trundled into his house. He set his brown suitcase, filled with anything he needed right away, on the empty floor and went to prepare.

Next door a very pregnant and displeased Petunia watched him move. Her shrewd eyes followed her sagging movements. She watched his arms stretch from the folds of his coat and embrace a glistening box. He went inside with it. Once he set it away he returned for the next. His footsteps echoed in the empty streets, splashing against little pools of light where the clouds broke.

She wondered why a single man would want to live in a suburban family home. Well, first she wondered how he could afford it.

Arthur wondered the same thing.

He wondered why he wanted to torture himself in the suffocating loneliness of a big house. He knew all he could do was sit on the floor and stare at shadows, who would dance in a vain attempt to please him, to be his friend. He wondered why he wanted a house where each room would be empty except for him and each chair at the table would be empty.

Empty

Empty

Empty

Then he remembered why. He knew there was a war between the wizards raging hot and furiously. He knew also that if he was caught up in it his duties as a man for the entire nation would be shirked. He had priorities. He had to keep them.

Finally he was moved in. The boxes lined the dusty floor. Curtains were pulled back to allow dappled light to pour in, shifting with each wave of the storm. He knew his neighbors by instinct and wondered if he should introduce himself. They probably didn't care. All who cared was the Dursley residence and not for any good reasons. Arthur bent over one of the larger boxes and tugged it open, revealing a tightly packed cube of books. He picked them up and laid them out, choosing which would remain stored for the time being.

As he drifted through countless volumes and tomes, he was stopped by a leather bound notebook. The latch was secured but the lock was damaged. Arthur ran his hand over the hard black front, picking up a trail of dust on his fingertips. He pried the book open, receiving a gust of ancient smell.

The book dated back from 1770. In thick, long, intelligent script a journal entry began:

_Sometimes I am decidedly prone to believe that the sickness has come for a reason. I doubt it has appeared of its own will, as a monster leaping from the darkness to consume all in its way. I doubt it was a curse from God or from another deity, I say as my faith dwindles. What I believe is that it came, yes, as a natural disaster, but also as a gift to me. A blessing from sickness, I should call it, comes from the time I have spent recollecting while lying prostrate in bed. _

_Thoughts drifted into my head: of revolution, of freedom, of being known as a natural born English man. What difference does a body of water between us both is there? I thought I was an unalienable part of the Crown before the yellow fever decided to attach its parasite to my person. Now it is stiflingly hot and my eyes have turned the color of corn. I long for winter's breath. I long for a layer of fat over my jutting bones. And as I longed I thought and I thought… _

_This man I called my guardian, my father if I was so prude, what does he mean to me? He is an expedient to my demise. He is the plague, the true plague, and he has poisoned my people with the thought that his citizenship is equal to that of Rome's. He steals our food and our taxes and he has refused to accept us as his own while, at the same moment, he refuses to give us any autonomy. _

_I cry for freedom! _

Arthur gently shut the journal. Its aged papers ruffled crisply, yellowed with time and spotted with water stains. He redid the latch and put it back in the box. He didn't notice the tears budding in his eyes. He was a horrible father, was he? He sniffed and cleared his throat. It didn't matter. No one would have seen him if he had shed a tear. He allowed his eyes to water again as he opened another journal. A blue spot plumed on the fresh white pages. The book moaned.

"Ohhh must you cry on me?"

The book shuddered in his hands. Arthur slammed it shut and tucked it into the very end of the box. He didn't want any wizard books out and about in his home, let alone one as saucy as _The Olive Tree and What Anne Bellum Did Wrong Under It. _

"No! What are you doing?" The book whined, flapping its pages. Arthur picked up a hefty copy of _The Brothers Karamazov _and put it atop the pestering book.

"I am putting you away because I am in no position to deal with any sort of magic!" Arthur said sharply.

The book let out a muffled cry.

Arthur grinned.

He began organizing his processions. He had brought his furniture the day before. Now they collected in a corner. He dragged them around, setting the coffee table adjacent to the couch, then deciding against it.

As he organized he occasionally pulled out his wand and ran his thumb along its side. It had no magic left inside of it. He stood before the armoire in his room, staring at the darkly colored wood. He sighed and tucked it in his pocket, setting his underwear in the drawers.

Once he finished he went to the backyard. The small crop of land was a mass of curly grasses, tangled together like a child's unruly mane of hair. He went to the corner under the tree and with his fingers began to pry open a small hole in the earth. The soil complied, slipping through his fingers easily. He dug about a foot in, directly to the earth. He tossed looks over his shoulders, checking to see he was well hidden. Something glittered from between the sodden bars of wood: a pair of cat eyes. Arthur returned their glare until they blinked out of sight.

He bent back over the hole, pushing his hand in it and making more room. He retracted his hand, matted with soil, and pulled the wand from his pocket. He held his wand above it. It snapped with a dry click and a dull glimmer. He set it down in the earth and buried it deep.

His head began to hurt. He ducked it, shutting his eyes out. Images flashed by his eyes, ripping apart the darkness with sharp stabs of pain. He tensed and his breaths came quickly and roughly. In his mind he saw a rabbit grazing on grass, unaware of the shadow slowly growing darker over its head. Talons swept it away with a drop of blood falling to earth too slowly, a marble in space, molded by air, and slowly swept up by the cascades of speed and brutality. Arthur opened his eyes, staring at the grave for his wand, and felt truly lonely.

* * *

_Thank you for your reviews. I'm glad I've reached out to new viewers. Any of you who have read previous stories must have caught a pattern: I don't tell stories in order all the time. So don't worry, I haven't skipped or forgotten anything. It just wasn't time for it it yet. And since I know you all know Harry's story well, I don't feel like I need to go through it totally in order. Thank you again. _


	13. Finding the Path Again

**13.**

**Finding the Path Again**

"It has come to my understanding that you have ceased performing magic of any sort." Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling morosely behind half-moon spectacles. His long, crooked nose cast a faint shadow across his face, making the sage even sager. His nimble fingers leaned against one another, becoming a tent under his lips where his white hairs cascaded down.

Arthur nodded. He had not seen the desk before him in what? A century? Arthur could barely fathom the last time he laid his eyes on the hundreds of winking, shifting pictures and the instruments poised for elegance and intelligence alike. Arthur cleared his throat. "I refuse to do any magic after what happened to me the last time I tried to apply it to my circumstances."

"I see. Now, I don't know exactly what you pertain to, Arthur, but I do know that you brought up Harry Potter as your own." Dumbledore smoothly slipped into his main point.

"As opposed to the original plan, being with the Dursleys?"

"Yes."

"Did I bring him up poorly?"

"No, quite the contrary, I think he's a better boy than he would have been in a bad family." Dumbledore said. He brought up images of Harry Potter and how he secured the Philosopher's Stone, how he humbly accepted his victory, of the natural nobility he radiated. The boy was like a lion cub, waiting for the day his mane grows longer and his muzzle lengthens. "In fact, he befriended one of the Slytherins."

"Did he?" Arthur asked, nonplussed.

Dumbledore raised one thin eyebrow. "Yes, a Draco Malfoy."

"And?"

"Well, you see, Draco is disliked by Harry's other friends. However, Harry seems content with that. I've heard from teachers that they often talk and discuss notes in a mild way. Even Draco seems to avoid trouble, not that he wouldn't otherwise."

"You seem so surprised and unlike yourself." Arthur said. He leaned back in his chair, pinching his striped tie and running the fabric through his fingers. His hair was as tamed as it could be. His eyes narrowed, smelling a rat.

"Look in there." Dumbledore said, pointing to the Pensieve. Arthur stood and approached the cauldron, expelling cool white, cottony waves of mist like froth. Arthur bowed before it, waiting for Dumbledore to approach him and direct him to a memory. Arthur's eyes reflected cold blue.

Memories floated through the surface, bobbing like fish in a stream. Arthur felt at ease in a pool of memories. Dumbledore directed him to one that flashed to the top, a hungrier fish, and Arthur fell and fell and fell.

When he opened his eyes again he stood on the grassy fields outside of the castle. Harry and his two friends stood before a pale, thin boy with a crude sneer stretching his lips. He threw his mouth open and chanted; "Mudblood!" Ron withdrew from Harry, repulsed and clutching his wand. Harry looked thinner than he usually did, and his cheeks were far more gaunt and paler. Hermione stood before Draco. She raised her palm. I loud snap popped through the air. Draco's head whipped to the side, a red mark blooming across his cheek. Hermione held her palm out, baffled. She was older than the last time Arthur had seen her, so was Harry.

"How do you have this memory?" Arthur asked, looking towards Dumbledore. Dumbledore's eyes pulled away from the scene.

"That's why I asked you to pay me a visit. I don't know."

Arthur felt a strong tug and, within a moment, was planted firmly back in Dumbledore's office. He rubbed his back, feeling a sharp stab of pain coupled with age. Dumbledore ran his hand through his beard.

"I wouldn't have called you hear for just the fact that you raised Harry. It was a part of the plan that changed for the better." Dumbledore moved back to his desk. The way he walked could have been mistaken for gliding. His robes barely whispered past the rugs. Arthur heavily stepped back to his seat, conscious of every thump his dress shoes offered.

"So you ask me about what happened just about twelve years ago?"

Dumbledore tipped his head forwards in assent. Arthur abandoned his tie for the gold ring on his finger. He pressed his thumb against the engraving. "All I recall is going out for a drink and coming home to find the boy on my front step."

"Did you see anything strange that day?"

"Not at all…"

A gold ring flicking between two fingers, rolling, a grin…

Dark hair, dark eyes…

A bargain?

No, a strange man.

"No, not at all." Arthur shook his head, grinning.

"And when Hagrid came over to take Harry to Diagon Alley, did anything strange happen?"

"Well," Arthur paused, running his tongue along his lips. "I do remember Hagrid appearing before my door with a slightly baffled expression. After that he treated it as normal. He seemed to understand that I do not perform magic anymore."

Dumbledore's eyes hardened, focusing on the thoughts swimming through his head. He turned to gaze at the Pensieve as well, as if asking it for answers. "Do you think any of the dark arts are at work here?"

Arthur chose not to respond.

. . .

"Snape said you were a wizard and hiding it." Harry Potter asked casually on Christmas.

Arthur leaned against the window. Snow buffeted behind him, clinging to the glass like small kisses. He clasped his hands together. "What exactly did he say?"

"He said 'Well, Potter, as your father then if you really are such a celebrity' or something like that."

Their house was silent and warm. Harry had visited the Weasley family that morning. He chose to be with his father for the rest of the silent night, where a soldier once sang in the midst of war in a time now long gone. Arthur moved in his seat and leaned over, placing his elbows on his knees.

"Harry, understand this about me if you will never learn anything else: I chose to go away from magic. It's like a man who was in war who now refuses to raise a gun. I won't perform magic for you unless I have to."

"Why not?" Harry asked, frowning.

Arthur considered his response. He could lie. He very well could…

A gold ring on his finger. He looked down at it and read the engraving, consuming its vocabulary and diction and tone.

"My magic is too powerful." Arthur put it simply.

"Could you revive the dead?" Harry asked.

Arthur looked at Harry's green eyes, seeking grief, hope, loss? He saw a faint glimmer of hope and a knot of confusion. Harry didn't know if he wanted his parents alive and to take over for Arthur, or to keep Arthur. Could he have both? Would he love one more than the other? Harry's eyebrows dipped a centimeter, a black smear of complexity a boy his age shouldn't face. Arthur reached forwards and rumpled Harry's hair.

"Open your present, now."

Harry leaped at the opportunity, picking up a small box packaged in thin gold paper. Arthur hadn't allowed him this present of two until later. He didn't say when, just "later" in his vague way he seemed enamored with.

The box was slightly larger than his hand and heavy. Harry shook it gently, hearing something rattle on the inside. He looked at Arthur.

"It's from Alfred, in apology for not making it this year." Arthur said. This would be the first Christmas he spent with Harry alone.

Harry gently pried off the paper, revealing a plain brown box. He set the paper aside and stopped. A letter was taped to the front.

_Merry Christmas Harry,_

_This got me through living with that old man for so long. Maybe it'll help you._

_-Alfred (the better uncle)_

Harry smirked and opened the box. On the inside was a little toy soldier dressed in red with a thin black bayonet slung across his back. His face was an impassive set of one line and two dots. Harry held it in his hand. His shoulders slumped. He expected more. He set the soldier to his side gently, so not to insult it, he knew so much, and looked at the one other present in the set.

Arthur watched the crazy happy grin burst across his face. Another envelope sat inside, from Matthew. Harry stood up and approached Arthur, hugging him tightly.

"Thank you!'

"Don't thank me. Thank your Uncle when you see him."

Harry agreed, looking at the gift in his outstretched hand over Arthur's shoulder.


	14. Sanctuary!

**14**.

**Sanctuary!**

Harry Potter was dead.

He passed away, he was killed, he was a savior, he destroyed the Dark Lord. He was still dead, irreversibly, catastrophically, utterly dead. He was irretrievably lost. And it was Arthur Kirkland's fault.

Arthur held Harry to his person, running his hands through the mass of matted, dirty black hair. He pressed Harry's still warm face to his shoulder. He felt tears trickle down his cheeks, streaking through the dirt clotted there. His borrowed wand rolled through the grass, towards the forbidden forest where Harry lost his life.

"Harry…" Arthur muttered hoarsely, clutching the wiry and limp body until he couldn't anymore.

The sea of wizards, dead and alive, around him, now free from the Dark Lord, mourned.

Arthur wished he could change it all.

And his wish came true.

* * *

_Before you complain about how out of order this is, please wait until the next chapter._


	15. One Thousand Days

**15.**

**One Thousand Days**

Arthur needed to choose when he would die. He chose Harry's fifteen birthday, when things began to fall apart. As time flowed by him, moving back and back in a way he had done only once before, he pondered his options.

No matter what happens, Dumbledore would step in and convince the Dursleys that they needed to take Harry in, if they wanted to live safely. It would be a hard change for Harry and Arthur regretted that and only that if he could regret anything.

He tumbled through wars, through parties, through kisses, and through the flickering of a golden ring between fingers. Time sloshed like a cold drink, lapping at his ankles. The blood stains on his coattails dried and evaporated. There was him and his life. Nothing else matters.

He stopped abruptly before Harry. Harry couldn't see him. Harry stared at the ground, kicking it with his toe and swinging numbly on the old swing set no child had seen for a very long time. The sky was the color of rotted flesh. Harry kicked the toe of his shoe deep into the gravel, dislodging small chunks and hitting the cold dirt beneath. He then raised his toe, letting the stones roll back into the miniature ditch. Rocking back on the swing his hair billowed in the gust of wind. He looked around, still not seeing his father.

Arthur couldn't move nor speak. He still clutched the borrowed wand with someone's wedding band on the tip there for safe keeping. His cheek stung with a scratch he received from falling down the stairs during the battle, when Fred died. He felt somber. He felt every drop of Harry's turmoil, of his coming of age. Hold that feeling. Think about it.

"Harry," he muttered. He would have to go. He would have to leave Harry if he wanted Harry to live. The war was inevitable. Lives would be lost. But if he left Harry at this point, he could still have some impact.

If he left now, just before Sirius was destined to fall through the molted fabric, Harry could still be friends with Draco. Ron wouldn't have died either. Arthur considered all this, considered how a single person could have made such a change. How _he_ could have made such a change. He walked away from Harry and his lone swing set, moving towards his house. A cat sprung from the cobweb of shadows, slipping back into the piles of crushed cans and smothered cigarettes.

Arthur walked around them, his dirt-splattered shoes leaving barely visible marks on the cement. He stopped, hearing a scuffling sound. It reminded him of something very far back… He turned in the direction of the sound.

He saw an obese boy and his two friends sharing a cigarette. Tendrils of smoke climbed into the passive sky. They giggled and muttered curses and which girl they banged up good and which one they'll do next. And, hey, look at that slut walking past with exposed thighs. Dudley at the head laughed, taking a huge drag. He watched closely as his friends put it to their lips, allowing only sips at a time. Greed. Greed, vile, green greed like a slow moving slug in his brain…

Arthur saw himself walk out of his house to see where Harry went off to, feeling worry rising up in his throat like foul bile. He didn't see Dudley then. But now he could see and hear Dudley. He could hear Dudley mutter something about that brat Harry's gay fairy father and Harry's this and Harry's that…

Arthur couldn't have Harry do that.

Arthur had to make another choice. He had to make it now. Harry could die or suffer with hatred through his life. He could die a hero. He could live long enough to see the world suffer even more and know that he couldn't help it but try anyone because that's all he knows how to do. He could be swallowed back into the world's incessant rhythm, into the world's strategy of destroying everything human, of the world's way Arthur had created.

Harry.

Harry listen, Arthur thought, standing in the middle of the deserted street with cold air around him and a pair of green eyes in the dark and the world staring at him and everywhere else all at once.

Harry.

Harry, what have I done to get you? To be worthy? Harry. Harry the savior, the hero, the one who destroyed the dark lord. The one who rose to epic proportions, Harry who he chose to be his son, Harry Potter, Harry Kirkland; what difference?

Except one lives and one dies.

What is merciful; what is right?

What is worthy?

Arthur had to make the choice quickly.

Time was ticking away.

Arthur shut his eyes so he couldn't see anything to distract him. And he let the world pass. He would return to the nations, knowing Harry lived like any other mortal.

Whoever thought being immortal was a good idea? Arthur laughed at the notion, walking into the air-conditioned room with a bright scar across his cheek bone. He grinned at them. He lost a son. He was no longer a father.

He was just Arthur Kirkland who wanted nothing more than to go home and nurse his wounds. But going home meant going home alone. He didn't think he was ready for that yet. He flicked his gold ring through his fingers.

He was worthy.

_End_


	16. Meet Me at the Break of Dawn

**16.**

**Meet Me At the Break of Dawn**

Arthur Kirkland wanted nothing more than to stay at home and nurse the burn on his right arm. But, he couldn't do that. He reclined against the patchy couch in the small apartment. The radio blared the news, telling who murdered who, who poisoned what tea, and which item has been recalled because a child died choking on it.

The radio sat in the corner of a dilapidated kitchen. The fridge rumbled in an effort to cool the insides. The stove hadn't been used in a long time. Arthur yawned, feeling sleep drag down his eyes. Moonlight poured in from the cracked rectangular window, coloring his pale toes silver on the coffee table, stained with various colors of various origins. Arthur scratched his neck with his left hand. His right arm throbbed with pain. He stared at it, wondering how he could go to work that night.

Skin on his arm was charred black, dripping red blood in various spots. Arthur picked up a wet napkin and dabbed it at. He pulled it away, revealing a blossom of crimson. A steady thumping came from the neighbors up ahead. A woman's shrill cry pierced through the thin walls. A man howled back at her. More thumping. Something shattered. Something else broke. Someone cried. A baby's wail burst through the opposite side.

Arthur rubbed his head, crumpling his forehead and hair. Why the hell did he have to live here? Oh, that's right. Because he made that stupid choice. He stood and went to the kitchen and took a long drink of water. Gather your strength, kid, you'll need it.

As he approached the door, three steady knocks resounded on it. Arthur's blood froze. Who wanted him now? He didn't own anything that needed to be paid monthly. He didn't have that many enemies. He didn't have that many friends, either.

He opened the door and found no one.

He looked around, down the long, empty hallway with scattered glass and a door slamming shut. A prank? No one had the energy or time to pull a prank in this neighborhood. He looked over the railing into the empty square in between the apartments. The plants were well-trimmed and the night air was chilly. A child with a heavy backpack bent down at the far corner, next to the street lamp. The streetlamp let out a misty bubble of orange light, bathing a small circle of the ground below it.

The child was petting a dark colored cat. At least, he was trying to. The cat stared at him. Each time he reached for her, she would step back calmly, her eyes pinned on him. Arthur watched the transaction for some time, taking it in. The sterile night air and the wind blowing and the English rain tasting the sky at the very edge of the horizon. Meet me there at the break of dawn, I'll show you a sunrise like you'd never known.

The voice echoed in his head. He remembered it. He remembered it well. As he thought of that time, distant and past, his thoughts were invaded by an infant's muttering. His eyes were drawn down to his feet. There, like Moses having floated down the river, was a baby in a basket.

Arthur bent forwards, feeling his heart melt with warmth for the small, delicate child. A note was pinned to the fabric before his pudgy chin. His fuzzy black hair didn't yet cover the jagged scar across his forehead.

Something was familiar about this.

Arthur thought about it.

No, nothing came.

He took the infant indoors, reading the letter and locking the door behind him.

The child was Harry Potter. Harry Kirkland, now. Arthur set the infant on the couch. He rumpled Harry's small hair gently.

"I'm terribly sorry you had to end up here of all places, Harry." Arthur said. "But if destiny wills it, then I have no say in that matter." He reassured himself. Ideals of karma and fortune and fate swam in his head. He couldn't give the boy up, for adoption or otherwise, he came here for a reason. It was probably a good reason.

The letter only said to care for the boy until he was eleven. The mystery author had penned Harry's birth date and his parents' names. Arthur committed them to memory and tucked the letter away in a drawer. Now he had a boy to care for in this shoddy apartment where a good night entailed only one fight and a bad night was a slit throat.

It had to be for a reason. It had to be.

He could call Alfred and have him bring his daughter over to play with Harry. Wouldn't that be nice? Arthur liked that idea.

For once, something went just right.

However, he still had a job to do. Arthur felt cold panic rising in his throat. Who did he have to call? He went to the phone and ran through the papers alongside it. Who was closest? Who could care for a child right now: in thirty minutes? Hello, this is Baby Care Right Quick Because Fate Screwed You Over at the Most Inopportune Time Hotline, how may I be of service? Arthur ran his tongue along his lips.

Maybe…

Ah, yes!

He picked up the phone and stabbed the number in. The line buzzed for what felt like half an eternity. Finally, a click sounded on the other end. "Hello?" The sleepy voice ran through the cords and electric signals, ending up at Arthur's elated ear.

"Hello, think you can come over in twenty minutes to babysit?"

"Sure I can—hey, wait, what the hell happened?" The sleepiness dissolved into confusion and horror. "Arthur, what the fu—"

"I think my wish has finally come true!" He interrupted, "I'll explain more when you come over."

"Um, sure, I guess." There was a brief shuffling before the line went dead.

Arthur was still beaming when his face met asphalt forty minutes later.

* * *

_Did you really think I was done? Welcome to Part II. I apologize for the fake-out. I needed a brief hiatus to gather the plot in my head and improve upon it. As well, I needed a break for some personal issues. Thank you for your patience. _


End file.
